Imitation of Life
by notmanos
Summary: Angel and his crew face a burgeoning gang war between different demon factions, which only gets worse when they discover that gods have joined the fray and the most devastating one has a grudge against Bob that can only be paid in blood.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The character of Wolverine is owned by 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. No copyright infringement intended. The characters of Angel & Buffy the Vampire Slayer are owned by 20th Century Fox and Mutant Enemy. Bob and his crew are mine, and have retained legal services, so don't touch._

_N.B.: Takes place shortly after "X2", and directly after "Alter"._

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**Imitation of Life**

_Prologue _

Malls weren't doing as well as they used to. Even in their spiritual home, California.

The internet was blamed, although it was uncertain if that was the actual cause. Whatever the reason, malls were hurting across the country, even the Galleria, where closed shops, shuttered behind protective metal screens, sat side by side with brightly lit shops such as Victoria's Secret and Hallmark.

Security cameras would later reveal that it happened in a closed down shop between the Barnes and Noble and the Hot Topic. Although there was a burst of obscuring static for exactly two seconds, when they came back on, the door to the closed shop was still seen to be rattling, vibrating in its frame as if made of gelatin. There probably was some kind of noise, but the sound of chatter from the near by food court and the music from a couple of stores probably drowned it out.

In spite of several different camera angles, what happened afterwards never made too much sense. The metal security door that had rattled opened from the inside, the outer padlock snapped like ice and dropped to the floor (still no one noticed), and the man that had opened the door seemed to blur around the edges, as if he was just a camera trick. He seemed to be a reasonably well built man, on the taller side of average, dressed in a long black coat that appeared to be a slick of oilskin, or perhaps some unknown synthetic leather. It seemed to increase the blur around him, making his face a ghostly smear.

He simply walked out of the shop; as far as anyone could tell, he wasn't holding a weapon, or even moving much beyond simply walking. And yet, as he moved, everyone in his path turned into ash.

It was inexplicable, baffling, and no matter how many times the tapes were viewed, none of the investigators could make sense of it. He was just walking. And yet, all around him, people's clothes would flash burn suddenly, and their skin wouldn't so much burn as instantly char, flesh becoming charcoal, hair disappearing in a puff of smoke. People noticed this, and began to run in general panic, but when he saw that, he raised his hand, as if motioning for someone to turn up the light, and everyone within range of the camera was flash fried, becoming piles of black ash as they watched, eroding in the forced air of the air conditioner. Black ash began swirling around his feet as he walked out of camera range, but he didn't notice. Plants both real and artificial curled up before spontaneously combusting, burning at impossible heat in record swiftness. But the tables in the food court didn't even get singed; whatever he had, it only seemed to affect living tissue and any type of cloth.

The amount of fatalities was difficult to ascertain, as the air circulation reduced most piles of ash to a thin coating of dust on the floor. The heat was so intense, their bones had been ashed as well, even though that was nearly impossible. Identifying everyone was turning out to be unfeasible, and that included the assailant as well. Only one feature seemed to stand out.

His eyes seemed to be glowing a molten cobalt blue.

1

Rupert reminded himself everyone had to start somewhere. He tried to ignore the little nagging voice in his head that insisted he was too old to "start anywhere" all over again.

Angel had said he initially started in an office building, so this wasn't a huge leap for him. They'd gotten the entire second floor of four story office building all to themselves, and there really weren't that much in the way of building tenants besides them, save for a shyster lawyer on the ground floor. And since he was actually a Gnor demon, he wasn't going to be bothered by anything they did. (The day they "moved in", he showed up to give them his card, in case they ever needed "legal help" - "And with your reputation, you're gonna need it," he said confidentially, tossing a sly wink at Angel. Only Bren instantly placing himself in front of Angel and laughing weakly before hustling the Gnor out of there saved him from Angel tossing him out the window. Rupert would have held the curtain open for him.)

Although he'd seen the card - before Angel wadded it up and threw it away - he couldn't remember for the life of him what the Gnor's name was. Bren called him "Lionel Hutz", which was apparently some kind of Simpsons reference, but the name had stuck, and no matter what his real name was, everyone now called him Lionel Hutz. It actually seemed appropriate.

He'd been doing his best to set the office up according to some loose feng shui rules, but it was difficult to do with the odd layout of the place, and within the budget they were working in. The office they were using as the main one used to be a dentist's office, and the connecting ones belonged to a diverse array of businesses, including an insurance agent's, a travel office, and a pet groomer. Previous to their moving in, someone had knocked out walls and plastered over doors, so their "office" was actually a warren of internal offices once you got past the front office and cut down a hallway. Angel had his own office, Rupert had one of his own, and Naomi turned one down, because - as she said - "What the hell would I do with an office?"

One of these "offices" had been converted to a break room, another to a weapons storage facility, and a third to a kind of "overnight room", set up with a cot in case anyone was overcome by the need to get some sleep. It had yet to be used.

He wasn't the only one trying to make the place livable. Bren - he didn't want to be called Brendan because it was "too formal" - was more than eager to paint the "logo" on the window on the office door, and the window of the front office, looking out on to a rare quiet street in downtown Los Angeles. The reason it was quiet was because it was only a couple of blocks West from the Hyperion, the old hotel that Angel used to work out of, and now had been demolished to make way for a strip mall. After his fight with the Senior Partners, there had been a "big snake demon" (most likely a Skrader) loose, and before Logan had killed it, it was estimated to have eaten at least a dozen people.

Funny how that had ruined a neighborhood's reputation.

Anyways, Bren wanted to go nuts with the logo, which included flowing wings and devil horns, and got a death stare from Angel. When he spoke, it was just an unyielding "No", and then he stalked off and left the room.

Bren just grimaced, and looked to him for help. "Too arty?"

"A tad," Rupert allowed, mastering the understatement.

He wasn't crazy about a young boy being involved in this - okay, he was eighteen, but he was still young - but it was hard not to be charmed by Brendan. He was insanely enthusiastic about the "vanquishing evil biz", and he had no lack of skill either. He needed more knowledge, but his eidetic memory mutation made that an easy prospect. He also knew an awful lot of people in the demon underground, most due to his connections with the Church of the Stone Temple, which threw their pool of contacts wide open. Demons who would rather die than talk to Angel or a former Watcher would gladly talk to Bren or one of his slightly disreputable friends. Everybody, it seemed, was charmed by Bren.

So Rupert was a little surprised to show up at the office - passing a smoking Lionel Hutz at the front of the building (it seemed that his secretary wouldn't let him smoke in the office) - and find that Bren hadn't been there yet. He had appointed himself "receptionist", and the desk in the front office even had a little plaque on it that read "Bren's Desk" (if he couldn't have an office, he wanted a desk), but it was unoccupied. The blinds covering the front window hadn't even been opened yet.

It was a small office, but rather cozy, with an attractive mahogany desk, parallel to a brown leather sofa against the opposite wall, with a matching chair off to the side. There was a low slung table with copies of local newspapers, and a fake but attractive palm was tucked in one corner, opposite an oval mirror that reflected the silk greenery. He would have preferred a real plant, but the room didn't get enough light for a plant - for a vampire yes, but nothing living.

"Is anyone here, or are they fumigating and no one told me?" He asked the empty room, opening the blinds just enough to let a little yellowed light in. The air conditioner was in the connecting hall, the one leading to the maze of offices, and he could hear it chugging away like a distant moped. That probably wasn't a good sound for an air conditioner to make, but it was still working, so there was no point in worrying about it.

"I figured you'd know first," Angel said, appearing in the archway of the hall entrance. He didn't come any closer, as the sunny front office was a bit unhealthy for him.

He would get used to this at some point, or at least that's what he told himself. He liked Naomi, even though he didn't know her well, and it was hard not to like Bren, but there was this oddity about his relationship with Angel. He was a good guy now, yes, he had been fighting evil for a very long time. But there was no forgetting he was still Angelus, the king evil bastard amongst vampires for a very long time, who also tortured him several years ago. He liked to think he was over that, but every now and again he wasn't so sure. Perhaps that was why he always carried a vial of holy water with him nowadays.

"Did he call?" he finally asked, putting his hands in his pockets. He was pretty sure this unspoken strain in their relationship was never so prevalent as when they were alone with each other. Luckily that didn't happen often.

Angel shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at the grey industrial carpeting before squinting at him. Oh, he was standing in a shaft of sunlight, wasn't he? Freud would have been pleased. "No. I'm not sure we should worry yet; he may have just overslept."

"Perhaps." But Bren was always so punctual, it was worrisome. Still, maybe he had finally wondered why he was being punctual. They'd been open an entire week, and no one had called, knocked them up, or even vandalized their place, which you'd think any decent demon would have done. They might as well have not been here, which was depressing. They still went out at night, looking for trouble, but save for scaring and dusting a few vampires, they hadn't found much.

All of which was in odd contrast to a few facts that they had gathered. Namely that the Senior Partners were interested in regaining their lost territory, that there was a demon gang war brewing in the power vacuum left in the wake of recent violence, and that Spike was back, and he was evil again, changed in some fashion by the previously named Senior Partners. But Logan could only tell them that his "smell" had changed marginally, and he had a bit of "Senior Partner in him", whatever that actually meant. Yet he was still a vampire, and presumably still vulnerable to the same old things. Logan said he stabbed him in the gut, and it hurt him pretty bad; he also didn't heal any faster than usual.

Did Spike know how lucky he was not to have been sliced completely in half? Presumably - perhaps that's why he hadn't been seen since he confronted Logan in Chinatown. Of all the people to confront, it didn't make sense that he'd meet up with Logan, the one man who could kill him without bothering to get up. No, Spike was not always the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had an unerring knack for self-preservation. There was clearly something that Logan hadn't told them, but then again, Angel was convinced someone tried to "get to Logan" on the pier when they destroyed the Erebus stone. His theory was it was the Senior Partners, and that while Logan didn't bite - did they honestly think he would? - it had shaken him. Angel figured Spike showed up at their behest, just to twist the knife, and guarantee that he'd want to get the hell out of town. Having seen Logan actually chop a sorcerer in half, on top of fight dozens upon dozens of homicidal demons in a pit, he couldn't believe anything would actually scare _that _man away, but Angel insisted it wasn't that simple. "You can unnerve him, but not with physical violence. That he can understand, that he can handle. You go for his emotions - he's one big raw nerve there. And if I know that, I'm sure they do too," Angel had claimed, with the kind of weariness of a man who knew he was right but wished he wasn't. The thing was, all Angel would tell them was his "weakness" related to both his memory loss and his other "losses", which he didn't specify.

Of course, he was just a Human - a blade enhanced, rather hardy Human, to be sure - so why would the Senior Partners be interested in scaring him off? As a Human, he was extremely vulnerable to them, no matter the circumstances. Angel seemed uncertain about that, but then conceded it might be because of his close association with Bob, a man they loathed but couldn't actually deal with. The Senior Partners had no desire to enrage a Power, no matter his status. Which made more sense.

But why hadn't the Senior Partners made a move against them? Angel had killed at least one of them, and several of their lackeys. They had to have a personal grudge. The more they bided their time, the more nervous he got - when they did show up (and they would; that was a given), it would be all the worse.

As the awkward silence stretched out, and he felt compelled to say something, anything, the door flew open, and Bren came in, a welcome bustle of energy. "Sorry I'm late guys," he said, going immediately to his desk and dropping his bag of lunch (brunch?) burritos on it as he began frantically typing on his computer keyboard. "I went by the Galleria to see if I could have a better look at what was going on, but they've cordoned the place off well past the parking lot, and the media crush there is nuts. Guys in HazMat suits were on that place like flies on shit. Even this did me no good." He pulled out a necklace from under his Pansy Division tour t-shirt, showing the pendant, which was just a small snake shape carved from stone. It was a special necklace from the Stone Temple, one presumably "blessed" by the Gorgons themselves. They didn't hand those out to just anyone, those were special religious artifacts, but Rags probably gave it to Bren because he was fond of him, or perhaps because he thought he needed all the protection he could possibly get.

He and Angel shared a quizzical glance, and then Rupert asked, "What happened at the Galleria?"

Bren looked at him sharply, red eyes wide and startled. "What? Haven't you guys watched the news?"

They both glanced at each other again, perhaps for solidarity, before shaking their heads. Angel had probably just gotten up, and Rupert only watched the BBC news, which wasn't on yet.

Bren rolled is eyes and turned his attention back to his keyboard. "Some major bad shit happened at the Galleria. Nobody knows exactly what yet, because as some official people turned up at the place, it was shut down tight. The main theory now is a terrorist attack of some kind, maybe a mutant attack, but they've released bupkis to the media. It's all speculation at this point." He turned his flat screen monitor towards them, showing a small video feed of a blandly handsome Hispanic reporter talking in front of some kind of barricade, with the Galleria just barely visible behind him. Part of it was blocked off by huge trucks with official state seals on them, and indeed there was a man in a white HazMat suit partially in the frame.

"Do you have any idea what happened at all? Was it an explosion, a fire..?" Rupert asked, wondering why anyone would launch an attack on a mall. Seemed like an odd place to make some sort of political statement. Oh, you destroyed a Cinnabon - you _were _hard core, weren't you?

"How many people were killed?" Angel wondered morbidly. But it was still a relevant question.

Bren gave them both hard looks, lips reduced to a thin line. "No - information - released. What part of that did you guys not get?"

"But I'm sure you've heard lots of rumors," Angel countered smoothly. "Any sound even remotely plausible to you?"

He thought about that a moment, then shrugged as he turned back towards his computer. "I dunno. I'm not really sure. I just hope it wasn't a mutant, 'cause, well, you know, that whole island massacre off of Denmark and all."

"That wasn't caused by a mutant." Angel said that so confidently he instantly wondered what he knew. Obviously he knew more about it than any of them.

Bren shrugged a single shoulder, clearing searching the web for something. More coherent news? "Doesn't really matter. The court of public opinion seems to think it was mutants, and they're all that count. Hating the dirty muties is a popular past time."

The thought _"Bitter much?" _occurred to him, but he not only didn't say it, but he was quietly appalled. He had been in Sunnydale far, far too long.

"I guess … I think I smelled something funny, but it was hard to say with all the exhaust and hair product on the site."

"Smelled funny how?" That hesitant statement seemed to intrigue Angel.

"I'm not really sure; I'm not Logan, I don't know how he can recognize things by scent. It was just something like … overheated asphalt. A kinda burned smell, but not smoke." He shook his head dismissively at his own inability to explain it. "It was just weird. It coulda been coming from one of the news vans for all I know."

Suddenly Angel looked startled, and reached out to grab the wall, as if afraid he might fall over. "Did you guys feel that?"

Now it was his turned to share a curious glance with Bren. "Feel what?" Rupert wondered, not doubting him, just at a loss.

"Are we gonna have an earthquake?" Bren asked. "Can you guys sense those things?"

Angel scowled at him, not appreciating the joke. "I'm a vampire, not a werewolf."

Bren's cell phone sounded, playing the now almost ubiquitous Red Dwarf theme, and he pulled it out of his pants pocket and flipped it open with the smooth movements of someone who did it all the time. "Yeah?" He paused, clearly listening, and Rupert wondered when "Yeah" had become an acceptable way to answer the phone.

Although neither of them could hear who Bren was speaking to, the alarmed look on the boy's face said it all. "Say what? Yeah, send me a pic if you can." He then held the phone slightly away from his face, and asked, "Any of you guys know if there are any big spider demons?"

Rupert rifled through his memory, while Angel replied, "Big spider demon? Where? How big?"

"Uh, West Hollywood. It's bigger than Arnold's Humvee. Hold on a sec." Bren looked at his phone, as if it might tell him something.

"Kumos," Rupert finally said, settling on the name of demons shaped like large spiders. "But they're only native to Japan, and they're extinct thanks to a Slayer who took out the home nest of them."

"Yeah, well, I think you guys slapped the extinct label on them too soon," he replied, holding out his phone towards him. Rupert had forgotten that he had one of those insanely useless videophones, one that seemed excessively high tech and needlessly expensive. On the tiny screen - which was hopelessly small, and not the best for resolution - he could clearly see what looked like a giant spider walking down the center of a crowded street, walking on the cars themselves and collapsing the hoods and roofs with the sheer weight of its legs. His best guess was it was eleven to twelve feet in height, and at least fourteen feet in length to the tips of its hairy legs. It was pure glossy black, save for what looked like rings of blue on its upper legs, and it had an odd mouth for a regular spider, a black gash filled with large yellow fangs, maybe a row of thirty or forty. Its segmented eyes, as large as dinner plates, glowed red.

Bren swung the phone around so Angel could see it too. "Rags' says it just came out of nowhere, but it seems really pissed off by all the light. He and Thrak are gonna try and chase it into a sewer, or maybe that abandoned cannery down near Sex Bomb."

"Sex Bomb?" Rupert repeated. He almost didn't want know.

"It's a nightclub," Angel told him, grimacing at the picture on the screen. "Tell Rags not to get too close. I'm on my way."

Bren scoffed. "Rags get close? Yeah, right. They're gonna turn hair spray canisters into blow torches and try and scare it off that way. Since Shelob here doesn't like bright light, they figure it'll hate flames even worse."

"A good bet," Rupert agreed. "If it's a Kumo, fire is one of the few things that it is afraid of. Speaking of which, Angel, I'm not sure you _can_ kill it. Magic is the only thing that can absolutely kill a Kumo."

Angel glanced at him rather placidly, clearly not concerned. "Are you saying our weapon of mass destruction won't work on it?"

'Weapon of mass destruction' was the rather sarcastic name Bren had given the sword of Weyland, the one forged from the liquid metal blood of the demon god Dolonn, the one toxic to almost every living - or undead, or divine - thing you could name. Rupert had cast a cloaking spell on it so no one who caught wind of its existence could find it, but they all knew it was just a matter of time before someone bigger and nastier than them came after it. He had been investigating ways to destroy it, but doing so harmlessly was nearly impossible. Fatal in life, and fatal in death. "No, that should kill it quite adequately."

"Good." Angel turned and disappeared down the hall, headed towards where they had hidden the sword and the emergency exit that lead down to a hidden sewer access on the ground floor. It was just behind Lionel Hutz's office, in fact, which seemed kind of ironic.

"I'd best go with you."

"No, stay here, find out where that thing came from. I think we need to know who brought it here and why, and where the hell it came from. If there's one, there's probably more."

Sad but true. So he watched Angel go, although he was considering waiting five minutes and then going after him. What if Rags and his slimy friend couldn't chase it into a dark area? Angel wouldn't be able to do a hell of a lot.

"Whoa," Bren exclaimed. "This is one fucking weird day."

Something about the tone of his voice indicated surprise. He turned back towards him, a sick feeling in his gut. Things had just gotten worse, hadn't they? "What is it?"

"Somebody vandalized the Hollywood sign. And I'm not sure how either. I mean, where did they get the question mark from?" Bren pointed to his computer screen, showing another live news feed, and paused on a still frame, showing the large letters of the "Hollywood" sign. Only now it spelled out: _"Hi Dad Miss Me?"_

Rupert just stared at it, hoping it would make sense. Was there a connection between this and what was going on?

The funny thing was, he actually thought so. But he couldn't fathom for the life of him exactly how.


	2. Chapter 2

2

It was funny how he felt he had gone backwards in his life. Er, unlife - existence.

He has started by traveling through the sewers, and ended up with a garage full of cars with necro-tempered glass, so he could actually feel the sun without bursting into flames. And now he was back traveling through the sewers again, in a run down office, with Giles and Brendan, who reminded him way too much of a younger, more extroverted Doyle - a remembrance he didn't need - and Naomi, who at least he didn't have to worry about. A woman who could control and shoot electricity? Yeah, she was fine. She was, in fact, "back up muscle", which seemed to amuse her no end. "You have a nearly forty year old woman as muscle? That seems kind of sad." But most "nearly forty" year old women couldn't electrocute a person who pissed them off without moving a muscle.

Angel wished that he didn't sound like such a whiney bastard inside his own head. That was extremely embarrassing. He was alive - in a sense - which was more than he could say for Wesley, Cordelia, Fred, Gunn, and Doyle, and Wolfram and Hart had lost their L.A. branch. So what if he was technically back where he started? He wasn't evil lawyer material anyways. And Logan had given him a beautiful apartment - so what if he had to take the sewers to get there? He should be grateful for so much, and yet he knew he wasn't. Gods, that was _so_ irritating.

He could smell the Kumo long before he saw it, before he even felt the vibrations of its steps within the sewer tunnel. It smelled like … what was it? Brendan had said it before: overheated asphalt, burned … not hair, but something close to it. Could this have caused the problem at the Galleria? No way - it would have destroyed part of it getting out, not to mention how in the hell did it get in there in the first place. The Galleria wasn't that close to West Hollywood - someone would have noticed the big, grumpy demonic spider between here and there, especially if it was using the streets. But there was no reason the incidents couldn't somehow be related. Did these things talk?

The sewer tunnel he was in, a large one that would inevitably lead to the heart of the city, started to tremble. It was extremely minute, but he could still feel it, the thrum of its rhythmic eight legs hitting the metal walls in rapid succession, and it was moving fast for something of its weight. Even though it was a demon and not actually a spider, it moved like one, scuttling like an insect. Okay, he was a grown man on top of being an old vampire, but he couldn't help but shudder. Damn, that was creepy.

Finally its shadow was a deeper darkness in the stinking tunnel, and it started coming through at a rapid clip. He reached behind him and pulled out the sword of Weyland from the sheath across his back. It was cloaked with a spell cast by Giles, but also had a minor "protection charm" on it, so it didn't bother him so much. But it still did; it still made his skin crawl and his flesh sting beneath the sheath. He wore leather gloves when he had to wield it, even though the hilt itself wasn't made from Dolonn's blood. But this thing wasn't just poisonous, it was consumptive; it wanted to kill, as if there was a homicidal will buried somewhere beneath the hardened metal. It was why he knew they'd have to destroy it eventually, or do something with it, guarantee that no one else could ever get their hands on it, simply because there was something so corruptive about it, that even if it fell into innocent hands, they wouldn't be innocent for long.

The Kumo hesitated and stopped, its bulk blotting out almost all the light in the tunnel, as it just barely fit. It could sense the evil of this thing, and wanted no part of it. "You're gonna tell me who you're working for and how you got here."

The thing answered with a screech. A screech that was at the absolutely highest range of Human hearing, and stabbed into his ears like a dental drill burrowing straight into his brain. He winced and took several steps back, trying futility to shake the pain from his head, and muttered, "Okay, talking's out."

Taking advantage of its disabling sonic scream, it charged forwards, its eight legs a blur of movement, and Angel knew he had no time for finesse. He threw the sword, which sank deep between the spider's large red eyes, all the way up to the hilt. It stopped moving, and for a moment seemed to stand there, totally paralyzed. Then it collapsed with a thud, causing the little puddles of rancid water to splash him in the walls in equal measure. "Son of a bitch," he snarled, wiping droplets of Human waste off his face.

He went to retrieve the sword, and he had to put his foot on what passed for the Kumos face and pull with all his might, as it had a thick, armored carapace. It appeared to be almost a foot thick, and had a density not unlike depleted uranium - no wonder only magic could kill it. This was probably better protected than any tank.

But the question remained: where had this come from, and what was the purpose behind it? He put the sword back in his sheath and started heading back towards the office, but then something caught his eye. He had to close in on it before he saw it clearly, but it was indeed graffiti written rather neatly on the sewer wall, some he would swear he hadn't seen on his way here. It said, in clear, yellow block lettering: _'Did you think this was over? Are you that big a fool?' _

There was no name on it, no indication that it was directed at anyone. But he had a feeling that was meant for him. And he had a sinking feeling just who wrote it.

* * *

There were five of them, four males and one female, all Caucasians save for an Indian man. The one in front of the group was a fugly customer, a man with skin like pumice thanks to his great network of acne scars, and shoulder length brown hair that looked stringy and greasy. He wore a black leather jacket, and looked vaguely like the guitarist of Spinal Tap.

The only good looking woman among them was the girl, who still wasn't a looker for the ages, just seemed attractive by comparison to the rest of the group. She was a bottle blonde with big, heavy lidded cow eyes, and about twenty pounds more than necessary, with a pinched face, like she had a drain at the base of her jaw and all her features had slid towards it. He figured if he was really drunk, or she wore a bag on her head (or preferably both), he'd do her. But only if he was desperate.

"Okay guys," the guy with the butt rock hair snarled, curling his upper lip up like Billy Idol. He had a very faint Gallic accent, faded almost to inaudibility. "Casser la gueule." He dramatically ripped off his leather jacket as his face and body began to change, bones suddenly lengthening and muscles appearing as coarse gray fur began growing through his skin. In the background, the same thing happened with all his "gang", although the color of their fur varied. The bottle blonde was a mousy brown, and he wondered if her Human carpet matched those wolfen drapes.

Igor froze the videotape, and said, "See? Isn't that cool?" The Slavic vampire was almost jumping up and down in eagerness, so excited Spike was surprised he didn't wet his pants. When did he have his last hit?

Spike snorted and shook his head, tapping a cigarette out of his pack as he leaned back against the plush couch in what was basically an overly stylized waiting room. "So what? They're werewolves. I hate those ugly fuckers; they always pee on everything."

"But they changed when he said the phrase! It wasn't even a full moon! He has 'em … well, I dunno. Hypnotized or somethin'. That's the trigger word. Er, words." Igor's name wasn't actually Igor, but he forgot what it was, and called him Igor instead. He didn't seem to mind, but then again, he was high a lot of the time. Igor was a drug addict in Bulgaria when some desperate vamp changed him, and even though he was now undead, he couldn't shake his habit. It didn't matter that he had to do a big bucket of cocaine just to feel a bit of it; he did it. It was basically psychosomatic, and a weakness that the Partners were happy to exploit. He was spineless, eager to please, and easy to influence and control. Perfect cannon fodder.

Spike shrugged, still not impressed. "Ooh, I'm shaking. What kind of shitty code phrase is that anyways? 'Break the jaw'."

"Actually, it's a slang phrase, meaning break the face," a petite, dishy Hispanic woman said, entering the room. "Your French isn't that good, is it William? Angel's was much better."

He scowled, aware the dig was on purpose and meant to goad him. He didn't appreciate it. "So you're the new representative, huh Chiquita?" She smelled mostly Human, but there was a hint of something else, a deeper darkness like grave dirt, which he knew was the Partners' influence. "The name's Spike - don't forget it, J-Lo, or you'll be sorry, no matter who you work for."

She was good looking, which was disturbing. She looked to be about twenty three, five six, about a hundred and thirty pounds, with wonderful California fake boobs, and a flat stomach you could only get by associating with evil. She had long, straightened brown hair with honey blonde highlights, contrasting against her Jessica Alba bronze skin and violet colored contacts, and wore a little slip of a summer dress in a florescent orange color that wouldn't have been out of place inside a Chee-toes bag. She put a hand on her cocked hip, and glared at him in a way that he guessed was supposed to be intimidating. Wasn't, but he knew it was _supposed_ to be. "And my name is Saffron. Forget that, and you won't have time to be sorry."

He rolled his eyes, and lit his cigarette, glancing back at Igor. He was still standing uncomfortably by the television, fidgeting slightly, fondling the remote like a gun, looking like the bastard love child of Iggy Pop and a lemur. He was scrawny and gangly, with constantly startled glassy eyes, about twenty pounds under weight, with his greasy black hair cut in a "punky" fashion, which looked like a small, spastic child had been at him with scissors. Today he was wearing stained jeans and a denim jacket that looked like he'd ripped it off the corpse of a hobo. In this tastefully furnished office, with its translucent acrylic accents and leather furniture, Igor looked more out of place than he did.

Igor finally picked up on the awkwardness, five minutes after it had settled in. He gestured at the frozen television screen, and said, like an eager puppy, "We've been lookin' at the tape. They're pretty wicked."

Spike scoffed. "They're ponces."

Saffron frowned in disapproval. "The Les Loups Rouges have done a lot of work for our Paris and Berlin offices. They are the best -"

He couldn't help but snicker, almost choking on smoke. He may not have been fluent in French, but he knew enough to get what she said. "The Red Wolves? They call themselves that? Now I know they're twats."

Rosalita sighed loudly, fixing him with a pissy glare that almost made him laugh. "You know, your attitude - far from being amusing - can only make you a focal point of suspicion. Is that what you really want?"

He met her glare straight on, not flinching, even though he felt a hollow coldness settle in his gut. Of course they were the Senior Partners, big evil fuckheads, and they had to know how he felt about this. He was all for destruction, especially if he could destroy Angel in the process, but this plan just sounded doomed to spectacular failure. You didn't fuck with gods, and certainly not angry, screwed up gods - he didn't care how powerful the Partners were; they had their limits. And some of the so called good" gods were only "good" in comparison to others - by any Human standard, they weren't exactly "divine" in spirit. In his experience, all gods were pricks, just different varieties and intensities of pricks. They were exactly like Humans, but to the nth degree, and with ludicrous amounts of power. They were far too overpowered for their general ego and emotional stability, and no good ever came of them. They would betray you with frightening ease, as "lesser beings" were nothing but fleas on their backs. "Look, chica, your bosses knew comin' in that I ain't the world's biggest fan of authority. If you wanted a good little soldier, you probably shouldn't have signed me up."

"They don't expect blind obedience, but they do expect compliance."

"And the difference is ..?"

Her artificially colored eyes narrowed to hateful little slits. "Don't make yourself more important than you are, Spike. You can easily be replaced. Especially if you're going to turn into a craven coward on us."

He jumped to his feet, and stalked towards her. "Don't you call me a coward, you Partner powered bitch -"

Igor seemed to leap across the room and put himself between him and "Saffron". He raised his hands as if to warn him off, but all it did was reveal recent track marks on his pale wrists. "Now, come on, we all know you're not a coward. She's just tryin' to rile ya -"

"I'm trying to warn you," the bitch insisted. "_Both _of you. If this somehow goes wrong, you will both be held accountable. And believe me, that's not an experience you want. Be ready - you go out at sundown."

Spike glared at her as she flounced out of the room, and he wondered if he could actually kill her. These "servants" of the Partners were technically immortal until they voided their contracts, right? He wondered if he could somehow get it voided.

Igor looked at him imploring, with those alarmed lemur eyes of his. "Why d'ya wanna get into it with her? She's hot. And she could have us all killed."

He made a rude noise and turned towards the window, looking out on downtown Los Angeles. He hated this bloody city; he wanted to leave it and never see it again, save as a quickly fading image in his review mirror. But they wouldn't let him leave. Supposedly, if he did this, they would, but he was pretty sure he couldn't trust them. His downfall, as far as he could tell, was in ever trusting anyone.

He was a loner, he was best when he was on his own. Maybe, if he got through this, he could find a way to get there once more.

Dying - again - to do it didn't sound so bad right now.

3

When he looked up from the desk, he was surprised at how dark it was. Was it really dusk already? Shit, he'd been here too long.

He gulped down the last of his cold and reasonably disgusting mochaccino, and rolled up the revised blueprints, securing them with a rubber band before sticking them in the wastepaper basket he used in lieu of an actual drawer. This was a drafting desk, and therefore no good for storing anything but pens in a cup. He walked across the tiny trailer, which sometimes seemed to shift uneasily beneath his feet, and used the bathroom, which was no bigger than his closet, and had a tiny toilet and sink that looked like a practical joke. He rubbed some cold water in his face and tried to focus on the outer world a bit more, wake himself from his blueprint reading haze. Sometimes it was like they put him in a trance, a confluence of lines and angles and mathematical equations that could really irritate him, until he "got" it. He couldn't explain it even to himself, but he found reading blueprints were often like looking at those 3-D paintings that seemed like a collection of small, flat interlocking images until you squinted your eyes and tilted your head just so, and if you were lucky, you could see the picture of what it really was popping out of the frame. For some reason, it was the same with him and the damn blueprints. As a result, there were days when he couldn't read them at all, and other times when they seemed to hypnotize him, and he couldn't quite start seeing them.

It was weird, but he also knew it was more or less normal, at least for him. And he clung to that perceived normalcy like a lifeline, because he'd found it the best way to cope. It was like everything that had happened to him when he was a kid was just a dream or a bad horror movie. It wasn't, but there were times when he almost believed it.

He was searching his pockets for his keys and trying to decide on what he wanted for dinner tonight when he heard the woman scream.

It made him jump, a blast from the past that made him fumble his keys and drop them on the trailer's vinyl tiled floor. His heart skipped a beat, started to race, as he heard her shout for help, a little closer this time. He grabbed his keys and listened to his heart pound in his ears while adrenalin dumped into his system and made him feel vaguely nauseous. One remnant of his past was his spectacular fight or flight response. Also, sadly, was a hyper developed sense of ignoring logic and getting safely away. His instinct - even though he knew what might be out there; even though he was probably going to be outmatched and no use at all - was to run into the fray, to defend and protect. That woman sounded scared and in trouble … and he couldn't turn away. Shit! He'd be lucky to make it to thirty at this rate, and he knew it. He was lucky to have made it this long.

But that didn't stop him from retrieving the aluminum baseball bat tucked into the corner parallel the desk, nor from checking his jacket for his concealed .45. Maybe he was powerless, but that didn't mean he couldn't go out fighting.

He left his trailer and stood on the top step, listening for sounds. The construction site was just off a major intersection, and cars were constantly driving past, stereos thumping like little detonations, but he was sure he heard strange noises coming from his far left, where the site met kitty-corner with a large parking lot. He started off at a brisk walk, but broke into a run as soon as he recognized some other strange noises, growing louder now.

Growling. And somehow it didn't just sound like a dog.

It didn't take long before he came upon the scene of a black woman in a well tailored and undoubtedly expensive navy suit being chased by what initially looked like five impossibly large and extremely ugly coyotes, only he knew that they were werewolves. But that made no sense - it wasn't a full moon, was it? And since when did werewolves travel in packs?

He didn't know, and he suddenly realized he didn't care. How long had he gone without these supernatural bastards intruding on his life? He should have been scared, but he was overwhelmed by a blinding sense of fury. Why didn't they just leave him the fuck alone?

He reached the woman first, who looked at him in wide eyed fear. She was going to say something to him, but the wolves were closing fast, and he really wasn't interested in chatting now. "Get to my trailer, lock yourself in," he demanded, pushing her in that direction. "Don't let anyone in unless it's me. " She seemed to hesitate, so he shouted, "Go!" as he saw a wolf lunge out of the corner of his one good eye.

He turned swinging the bat, and met its muzzle full force in what was probably a triple if not a home run. "I knew all those years of little league would pay off," he said, as the wolf hit the asphalt with a whimper, its lower jaw broken.

The others were almost on him, so he started swinging wildly, smashing them as soon as they were within reach of the bat, but he was aware this would do nothing but slow them down. That was okay, as all he was trying to do was give himself time to run back to the trailer.

One must have been smarter than the others and realized he was favoring one side, as it launched itself at him from his blind spot, and he didn't see it until it was almost on top of him. He got his bat up in time to block its snap at his throat, but it crashed into him and sent him falling to the parking lot. He kept his grip on the bat, but before he could use it again, the wolf - a big red furred bastard who smelled like a combination of wet dog and cigarettes - grabbed it in its mouth and ripped it out of his grip, biting the aluminum bat clear in half.

As they surrounded him, growling, he slid his hand in his pocket and settled it around the butt of the gun. It couldn't kill them - they weren't silver bullets, just plain old hollow points - but he bet it would still hurt pretty bad. "I hope none of them is you, Oz," he muttered, flicking off the safety.

This was a familiar sound, a faint "whoosh" of air, and suddenly a small silver arrow buried itself in the red wolf's side with a thunk. It actually looked in the direction it had been shot before not collapsing so much as toppling over, stone dead. There was a crackle and a smell of ozone before a bolt of what appeared to horizontal lightning shot out and hit the second wolf closest to him, sending it flying in a sour scent of burned hair. The other wolves, including the one with the broken jaw, started to back away from him, looking at their mystery assailants and growling , when there was another familiar noise - the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

The strangest sensation ran through him, a cold chill down the spine that made him taste bile in the back of his throat, and suddenly he wanted to join the wolves in backing away. What the hell was that?

Of course, the wolves were no longer backing away - the sword and whatever feeling it gave off was too much for them. They ran off, tails literally between their legs, and he heard a familiar voice say, "The moon is waning - there shouldn't be werewolves out."

He sat up, looking at the group making its way across the parking lot towards him. There was a kid he didn't recognize, maybe seventeen, with black hair and red eyes, holding a compact crossbow he had stopped to reload. So he killed the werewolf? Seemed young and the wrong gender for a Slayer. There was also a woman with short brunette hair in worn blue jeans and a Ramones t-shirt, with blue lines of electricity encircling her hands like hungry snakes. He didn't recognize her at all, and couldn't decide if she was a witch or a demon. But the old English guy and the big broody vamp who easily resheathed his scary sword one handed - well, how could he not know who they were? He sat up and scoffed, wondering why life liked to play these cruel jokes on him. "I thought there was a way for a werewolf to change when it wasn't a full moon."

Both Angel and Giles stopped dead in their tracks in shock as he got up, but the kid and the woman kept walking, not aware of what was going on. "Yeah, I think I read that," the kid said, hefting his crossbow up to his shoulder casually. "But I thought only overwhelming emotions could trigger the change in lieu of the moon. You piss these guys off or what?"

The woman seemed to notice the other guys had stopped, and looked back at them curiously. "What is it?"

Neither Angel or Giles answered her. They were both too busy staring at him in a shock that was almost comical. "Xander?" they said in unison.

He stared back at them, and suddenly felt like he was in high school again. God, he hated that feeling. "Well, duh."


	3. Chapter 3

4

Logan knew he was dreaming the second he stepped into the living room, and found that it had transformed into something else.

The front room of the cabin was now a brightly lit, sprawling room, with walls painted a robin's egg blue, and windows letting in bright sunshine only partially filtered by cherry trees in full bloom. There was the bookcases full of books in a dozen languages, and the Dali painting of melting clocks, and Mariko sitting in a leather wing chair, wrapped in a black silk robe with a white crane motif on it. She looked as beautiful as she always did, and sat there calmly, nonchalantly, holding a cup of what smelled like orange pekoe tea.

He looked at her for a moment, wishing that same old ache would go away - no, it didn't - and he dropped to his knees before her, feeling defeated. He let his head drop on her knees, and he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin cloth. She stroked his hair in a comforting manner, and it gave him chills to feel her warm fingers on his scalp and neck. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to get beyond you."

"I hope you're not asking me," she replied, but there was a faint, warm amusement in her voice. "I don't want you to go."

"I don't think I can." Even from his limited vantage point, he noticed the clocks in the Dali painting had melted past the frame, and were dripping down the wall.

He woke up, but wasn't instantly sure why. He just laid there for a good while, staring at the shadows the swaying branches made on the ceiling. The wind had come up since he went to bed earlier that morning, meaning he had called it correctly when he thought he smelled a hint of rain in the air.

He got up, but was in no hurry to do anything. The good thing about being here was he could sleep whenever he wanted, and do whatever he wanted when he wanted. There was no schedule to live by, or other people to deal with, just him. Which was bad enough usually, but this week had been strangely refreshing and relaxing. Had Bob "pushed" him? Probably; he hadn't had any nightmares either.

It was early night, but the crescent moon was bright, casting dim shadows through the windows. Coming through the skylight in the living room, it gave the room a pale blue wash, until clouds scudded over and blocked it.

The fire in the hearth was down to a few glowing embers, so he tossed another log on the fire, and wedged in some slender branches as kindling. He'd found a diseased tree in the forest not too far from here, one that could only spread the disease to other trees of its species, and cut it down and dragged it into the "back yard" to chop it into firewood with an axe he found in the shed. There was also a chainsaw, but he didn't want to use it. He liked the work; he liked stretching and straining his muscles stripping and chopping the tree down to reasonably sized pieces. He felt better after physical labor, and during it, he didn't have to think about anything but what he was doing. Like sex, it was a distraction from self-pity, although admittedly not quite as enjoyable as the former.

He also kind of enjoyed cooking for himself, mainly because he usually ate stuff other people cooked, or lots of processed, re-packaged stuff that often tasted strongly of the chemical preservatives used to keep it shelf stable. (He figured that was attributable to a better than average sense of taste, because other people seemed to love the stuff.) He found himself making things that he didn't know he could make, which made him wonder when he learned to cook. For instance, the last time he was in town, he got ingredients for paella - since when could he cook that? Didn't matter, as he could actually make a pretty good one.

Now he just decided to through together a dish of mizutaki, a kind of Japanese stew made with chicken and vegetables, and surprised himself by not grabbing a beer from the fridge, but a bottled green tea. It was thinking of Mariko that made him crave Japanese food, he supposed. Desire sublimated into food? Probably. Mizutaki was always cooked quickly, so even though he didn't have a lot of time, he turned on the stereo, and went to log on to the computer to check his email.

Since it was Bob, he had lots of weird shit to play on the stereo, including cds by bands he'd never heard of in his life, and he'd left one in the stereo. Logan decided to play it, figuring Bob had left it in there for a reason, and it was a disc by the Future Sounds of London. He knew them as a more raucous electronic outfit, but this cd was strangely soothing, and it actually made for very pleasant background music. Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone - he had an image to maintain - but it was pleasant enough ambient music.

He figured he might be bored by now, but he wasn't yet. Still, he had been surfing the web, and he found some of the Liberty Island video clips. Thankfully, none showed his face well at all, and he was grateful all attempted "image enhancements" made things worse. He began wondering if Mystique appreciated all the guys who had built drooling pages in dedication to the "hot blue chick" - if only they knew she'd kill them so much as look at them, especially for the "chick" remark. If they had any idea how old she actually was, they probably would have done a spit take as well.

Anyways, he'd emailed Srina the other day, and he was hoping she'd gotten back to him. He knew she always checked her email, and he hadn't heard from her for a while. He missed her, he couldn't help it, but he also knew she was probably right to dump him - he was nothing but the kiss of death. Srina had emailed him back - he didn't know why he was relieved; as far as he knew, he wasn't on her shit list - but oddly enough, Xavier had also emailed him. Maybe it was spam, and they just picked his name. There was only one way to find out.

Clicking on it, he found it was indeed from Xavier itself. The message was even more unexpected than he could have anticipated.

'_Logan,_

_Sorry to do this, but I wasn't sure how else to get in touch with you, and using Cerebro just for this seemed inappropriate._

_A man called here yesterday looking for you. He said his name was David Abrams, retired Colonel for the Canadian military, and he said he had a pressing need to talk to you as soon as possible. He said he was dying of inoperable liver cancer, and his doctors had given him six months to live, although he figures he'll be hospitalized within three or four months. He insisted it wasn't a trap, that he'd be transferred out of the Organization a long time ago, and before he dies he just wants to make some amends with you, as you're one of the few people left alive that he can make amends with. Because of what he was talking about, I scanned him, and I can say that he was telling the truth._

_He says he knows some things about your past you might like to know._

_He also said you could call the place and time of the meet, and bring anyone you wish. He means you no harm, and couldn't do you any harm regardless. He said he was in Toronto, and left a phone number for you to get in touch with him. While he seems to be telling the truth, I don't need to tell you that trust is still up in the air. The number is at the bottom of this missive, but I'm willing to go with you if you wish to check this out. But I should stress that I don't think you should go alone, if you do. Please call._

_Xavier '_

Logan stared at the message for a long time, wondering what he wanted more - this to be a clumsy and obvious trap, or that the man actually had some genuine things to tell him.

Sometimes it was impossible to choose.

5

"So you guys know each other?" Bren asked, looking curiously between them and Xander. Naomi looked on neutrally, waiting to see how this developed.

Giles cleared his throat, and said, "Yes. I - I was a librarian at a high school, and he was one of my students."

"_One _of your students?" Xander replied with obvious disbelief. "Why so modest, G-man? You can tell him I was the best student you ever had - I won't be embarrassed." He barely waited a beat for Giles's accusing stare before he scoffed, and admitted to Bren, "Naw, I'm kiddin'. I was the big dumb guy. Big being a relative term; it helps to be surrounded by petite girls. I'll have you know I was voted "Most Likely To Star In A Bum Fights Video" _and _"Most Likely To Be Eaten By A Mutant Hellbeast That Mates Then Kills". Sunnydale High had the funnest yearbooks ever."

Giles adjusted his glasses nervously, and muttered, "He's not kidding about the last one."

Angel stared at him in disbelief. They wrote _that _in the yearbook? He definitely should have flipped through Buffy's copy when he had the chance.

Bren was staring at Giles too, but just in mild curiosity. "You were a librarian in an American high school? Good god man, why?"

Before Giles could respond, Xander answered for him. "He had a sacred duty to watch a young, nubile girl. Which isn't as perverted as it sounds. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course it is."

"Umm, guys," Naomi interjected hesitantly. "Wasn't he a werewolf when you shot him?" She was pointing down at the body, which was now a naked Human male with scruffy brown hair, of average height and weight, back turned towards them and a silver coated arrow sticking through his side. There was very little blood.

"Werewolves generally revert back to their Human guise in death," Giles told her, as Angel went over to retrieve the arrow.

"Why were they after you anyways?" Bren asked Xander.

"They weren't after me. Well, not originally. They were chasing this woman across the parking lot; I just got in their way."

"Where is this woman?" Giles wondered.

"I told her to go to my trailer and lock the door."

"Trailer?" Naomi replied.

Angel yanked the arrow out of the man, and noticed, while he was bent over him, that he had something like a shadow on the center of his chest. He figured it was a tattoo, but he nudged him over on his back to have a look. He was glad he looked, because it wasn't a tattoo - it was a brand. A mark of red scar tissue in a rough triangle burned deep into his skin, with two spikes coming off the top like horns … or ears. A wolf face silhouette?

"Giles, take a look at this," Angel said, dipping his head towards the body.

"I'm a foreman," Xander said, answering Naomi's question. "Of a construction site. We're building a group of "boutiques" here -" he made air quotes. " - or, as I like to call them, shops selling "overpriced crap"." He made the air quotes again.

Giles peered down at the body warily, studying the brand. Angel asked him, "Does this look familiar?"

He hesitated a moment, scrutinizing it closely. "Perhaps. I'm afraid I don't have an encyclopedic memory of arcane symbols."

"You don't?" Xander exclaimed in mock horror. "Then what the hell good are you?" When Giles gave him an evil glance, he flashed him a game show host smile, full of teeth. Apparently, "growing up" was a relative term when applied to Xander Harris.

But didn't he always assume that would be the case? He couldn't ever picture Xander as an adult, just an overgrown boy-child. To be fair, he looked like a man at the very least; there was more solidity to his frame, he'd gained a little weight since he'd last seen him, and he had a suggestion of a five o'clock shadow that took the boyish edge off his face. There was also his glass eye, which looked realistic enough, matching the color of his real eye, but if you looked at it long enough you couldn't help but notice it never moved, and it reflected light in a slightly odd way.

Xander reached down to pick up the end of his broken baseball bat, but then thought better of it and just kicked it away. "So how'd you guys know about these things? And Giles, I thought you'd retired."

"I did," he agreed, shifting his focus away from the dead werewolf. "But I started going mad, so I thought it best I get back to work."

Xander nodded in understanding. "I hear that."

"A guy I know named Thrak called us and told us there was a bunch of werewolves running around downtown and killing people," Bren said, answering the first question. "We didn't believe him - since when do werewolves travel in packs? - but we checked it out anyways."

"We should make sure the woman is all right," Giles said, steering the conversation back in a logical direction.

Xander led them all back to the trailer set up in a far corner of the construction site, and Angel realized with a cold shock that this was where the Hyperion used to stand. Coincidence? How the hell could _any_ of this be coincidence? Xander - of all people - was supervising construction where his hotel used to be, and where a pack of werewolves attacked on a night without a full moon. Just like the graffiti in the sewer tunnel where he killed the Kumo, this meant something. But what? He couldn't quite organize it into a coherent picture yet. And where did that Hollywood sign vandalism come into things? Giles seemed to think it was connected, but Angel honestly hadn't figured out how yet. He had a feeling that the woman Xander rescued probably wasn't a coincidence either.

Xander knocked on the door of the trailer and assured her it was him rather than digging out his key, and she opened the door a crack and peered out warily. "The dogs are gone?" she asked.

"They're gone," he assured her. "The cavalry arrived. The freaky, freaky cavalry."

She opened the door and stood aside to let them in, although the trailer was so small they had to filter in single file. Introductions were made, reminding him that no one had actually introduced Bren and Naomi to Xander, and vice versa. Of course, it wasn't the most pressing thing at the time, so it was easy to overlook. The woman, who was neatly dressed in an expensive business suit, introduced herself as Nika Taqwa, which made Giles furrow his brow in consternation. He recognized the name somehow, but couldn't quite place it, which made Angel feel more certain that this was part of the puzzle. They find out how Giles knew her name, and they just might have an answer to all of this crazy shit.

There wasn't so much a couch as a tiny loveseat wedged into the narrow, utilitarian trailer, but Nika and Giles were able to share it, while Bren sat casually on one of the arms, and Xander found a stool for Naomi, while he pulled out the chair from behind the drafting desk. Angel was more than content to stand.

Nika's story was pretty straightforward. She was a CPA, who was doing a "routine" audit of the books over at the Magic Castle, and had stopped for a coffee, only to find that Jitters had closed early for the night due to a broken water pipe. She was returning to her car when she was cut off by the said "pack of dogs".

"The Magic Castle?" Naomi asked.

"It's a magic nightclub," Bren told her. "Showbiz magic."

That made Nika give them curious looks, smooth brows meeting over deep brown eyes. "Showbiz magic? Like there's some other kind?"

Xander faked a cough, but then smiled innocently, which he was sure no one believed.

Angel realized he had been smelling something odd since they got in the trailer. And it wasn't just that Xander was carrying a gun (!), as well as a flask of single malt whiskey. There was the slightest hint of a burned smell, like something was overheating, but he knew it wasn't coming from Naomi, who just had the faintest hint of an ozone smell when she wasn't using her powers. Was that smell coming from Nika?

She still seemed a little shaken up, so Xander pulled out his flask and offered it to her. She turned it down, but Naomi helped herself to a swig, and from the way Xander was looking at her, Angel was afraid he was going to start flirting with her. Not that he cared if he did, it was just that they really didn't have time for more of Xander's jackassery. (If that was a word; it probably wasn't. Damn it, he'd been in Los Angeles too long.)

When he took back the silver metal flask, he got a shock big enough that there was a brief flash of a blue spark, and while Xander kept a hold of the flask, he exclaimed, "Yeouch!" and moved the flask to his other hand before he shook his shocked hand in the air. "Wow, have you been running over shag carpets in your socks or what?"

Angel had no idea why, but he was looking at Nika when that occurred, and she gave Naomi a look that could best be described as intrigued. Something about it seemed unhealthy and suspicious, and he couldn't say why, but Angel shifted his weight forward to the balls of his feet, ready to jump into action and pull the sword. Something about Nika just wasn't right, and he was beginning to wonder if the whole "chased by werewolves" thing was a set up. But why? And why Xander? She could have no guarantee he would have helped her - he was a civilian, and most of them didn't jump into battle with one werewolf, not to mention a pack. But Xander did - and most likely would - because he wasn't your average civilian. He was, as he told Bren outside, the "only guy in the group without superpowers", and while he claimed to always need rescuing, that wasn't precisely true. Usually true, but not always. And it was very possible someone knew that.

"Sorry," Naomi said sheepishly, and pulled her leather gloves out of the back pocket of her jeans. She hadn't noticed Nika's look, but it seemed no one had save for him.

"Where is your car?" Giles asked, being polite. "We'll be happy to escort you to it."

Nika gave him a faint smile, but it was weak and not overly sincere. "Thank you, I think I'd like that. I never expected to be attacked by a pack of ugly dogs in downtown L.A. What kind of dogs were those anyways? They looked weird."

"Coyote hybrids," Xander said, so easily it seemed to be a lie he had used before. "When those things mate with Rottweilers, yeesh. We are talking a one way trip to Ugly Town."

She seemed to accept that, but suddenly she sat ramrod straight and looked around with wide, startled eyes. Angel followed her gaze, and saw it led to a tiny black garter snake peeking under the open door of the tiny bathroom. His immediate thought that she was afraid of snakes was quickly supplanted by the curiosity that she had somehow sensed it. Nika got to her feet hastily, and said, "Well, thank you for all your help, but I probably should go -"

"What's your hurry?" Angel wondered, keeping his voice neutral. Absolutely suspicious … and where the hell had that snake come from? It was still just wedged under the door, not moving If it wasn't for its tongue constantly flicking in and out, he'd have thought it was dead.

Xander stood up, looking slightly baffled. "Is everything okay?"

It was then the flimsy trailer door slammed open, making everyone jump to their feet, ready to fight, as Angel grabbed the hilt of his sword. But he didn't pull it out, because filling up the doorway was Bob, in a "Death From Above 1979" t-shirt and black leather pants, his hair longer and a bit more blond than the last time he'd seen him. His eyes were a complete, glowing electric blue. Xander looked like he was reaching for his gun, but Angel grabbed his arm and stopped him.

"Okay, Taqwus," he said, his voice pitched lower than usual, his Australian accent giving way to the curious one of the older gods. "You wanna tell me why you're here, or do I just kill you now?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Do you know this guy?" Xander asked him, almost accusingly, as if he was personally responsible for bringing the supernatural madness back to his life. The problem was, he could have been right.

"Yeah. He's ... Bob."

Nika - Taqwus? - backed up, holding her hands up in a warding off gesture. "Whoa, hey, I know you ain't got any powers now, Bob, so don't get into any shit with me. Don't start none, won't be none."

"I have some powers," he grated in reply. "I also have friends." There was a slithering motion beneath his shirt, and a small, pale milk snake fell out the bottom of his t-shirt and hit the floor.

"What the fuck..?" Xander exclaimed. "He has snakes in his pants!"

Logan had mentioned this before, hadn't he? He said that Bob had some kind of "god friend" made of snakes. That's what had freaked Nika out, and why the appearance of the garter snake beneath the bathroom door made her want to run. These weren't so much snakes as part of a god with much more power than her.

Angel reached behind him and pulled out the sword, making Xander take a step away from him, a look of nausea briefly passing over his face, while Nika turned around, shocked, and visibly flinched, marking her as something other than Human. "Jesus Christ, where'd you get the sword of Weyland? I thought they destroyed that thing."

He ignored her. "What is she, Bob?"

"She is a he. Taqwus, the trickster. A soul sucker."

"A soul sucker?" Xander repeated in disbelief. "How come all the good looking women I meet are hell harpies?"

Angel glared at Nika, aware that because he had a soul, he could have been a victim of her as well. And if he was, Angelus would have come out to play - which would have been ideal for the Senior Partners. "Who sent you here? It was them, wasn't it?"

Nika met his stare, eyes narrowing in challenge, and blue sparks danced between her fingertips. "You think I'm just a demon you can intimidate, parasite? You think wrong."

The trailer lights flickered, and a tiny bolt of electricity sizzled across the room and hit Nika in the arm, making her cry out in pain and stumble. When she turned her gaze, Naomi held up her ungloved hand, which was aglow with electricity, blobs of it dripping from her hand like flowing blood. "My sparks are bigger. Wanna play?"

So that's why Nika looked at Naomi so curiously - a similarity of abilities. He lowered the sword until the point of it was at Nika's throat. "I wouldn't, really."

Nika made a strangled noise, eyes bugging out slightly, and Angel followed her panicked glance. There were snakes now twining themselves up each of her legs, a vibrantly colored coral snake and an extremely large black mamba that almost looked like an abandoned piece of cable.

"Talk," Bob insisted.

"Okay," Xander said, backing up behind his drafting desk. "Have I ever mentioned that I hate snakes? After the whole "snakes in the cafeteria" thing, I really hate the fuckers. Also wasps. They're just not good."

"These aren't regular snakes," Angel explained, as even Giles looked slightly alarmed. "These are parts of a snake god."

Giles look became one of intense interest. "A snake god? Bob, you know a snake god?"

"Parts?" Xander exclaimed. "Which parts?"

"This is Degei ?" Bren said, sounding relieved. "Oh, thank god, I thought I was going to join Xander in a panic attack."

"I am not panicking," Xander protested. "I'm just ... having a deja vu wiggins."

"You have three seconds before they start biting," Bob warned Nika.

Pinned by snakes and caught between Bob and the sword of Weyland, Nika knew she was fucked. She wanted to do something, but she knew her only options were suffering and dying. "Okay, okay! Jesus - you know I'm not at full power either. I'm stuck in this mortal shell, just like you."

"After what you did to Crow's daughter, you're lucky to be alive at all," Bob countered. "Now, what the fuck are you doing here?"

She rolled her eyes, but otherwise remained stiff and motionless, afraid either the snakes or the sword would bite otherwise. "Look, I was hired for this job, okay? They said they could help me get out of this shell and back into my normal form if I did a couple of errands for them."

"Them?" Bob had come around to the side for a better look at Nika, the glow in his eyes subsiding. The snake god had the most power here, and the best shot of taking her out, should it come to that. Nika clearly wasn't going to push her luck with the god of snakes.

"Damn it, you know exactly who I'm talking about - how long has this stupid fucking war been going on anyways? The Senior Partners."

"The who?" Xander wondered.

"What was the job?" Angel asked, although he thought he knew, and felt a hard chill settle in his stomach.

"Just suck a few souls, get your attention. Take yours, if I got the chance."

"Hold on," Xander said, coming out from around the desk warily. "You weren't really in danger from the werewolves? It was a set up?"

She looked at him with open contempt. "Of course, you stupid meatbag. They knew you were here, and they figured your death would get the attention of your old buddies here. Whether the wolves took you out or I did was irrelevant. The fact that your friends showed up so soon was a bonus ... well, until this PTB fuckhead -"

Bob physically shoved Nika - right onto the sword. Angel tried to pull it back, but wasn't quick enough; the sword punctured Nika's throat, and purple-black blood gushed out from the wound. Her eyes had time to widen in horror, and she gasped, "Oh sh -"

She didn't have a chance to finish her epithet, as she died on her feet, and her body crumpled to the floor like an abandoned husk. "No civilians," Bob snarled at her corpse. "You heartless bloody wanker."

The snakes were gone, but how he had no idea, as Angel had never seen them leave. Then again, he hadn't seen them come in either - they were just here, in the same way they were suddenly not.

"What the fuck is going on?" Xander demanded, sounding angry but looking horrified. "These people were gonna kill me because of you? He's not even my friend! I mean, you are Giles, but not Dead Boy over there."

Angel shot him a sharp look. "Get past high school already."

"They don't care," Bob interjected. "You have some connection to Angel's life, and that's enough. They're goin' balls to the wall this time."

"Why?" Giles asked that so calmly it almost seemed like he doubted him.

"'Cause Angel humiliated them; it looks like he kicked their ass. They don't like that, and they aren't going to let that stand. Oh, and 'cause I'm on parole, I just have my Belial powers, and I'm sure they think that now's the time to have their friends take me out. I'll be back, but as long as I'm gone for a while and they have L.A. all to themselves again, they'll be happy."

"You're on parole?" Xander's look was priceless.

But Angel thought he understood, as Bob smelled a bit different; he smelled more solid, more Belial, less like bottled sunlight. Was this due to him? He wondered, but couldn't ask. Bob brought him back, presumably with the Powers blessing, because he wasn't powerful enough to do it on his own … but what if he was acting against them? It wouldn't be the first time he disobeyed them.

Giles seemed to take this all in while keeping a neutral expression, but Angel could tell he was actually reining in his temper. "Why did you kill her … him? He could have told us about the werewolves."

"What, you mean The Red Wolves? I can tell you about them."

At the mention of that name, Giles seemed a little taken aback. "The Red Wolves? The werewolf cult? That was them?"

"Yeah. What, you didn't recognize the mark on their chest?"

Giles grimaced in embarrassment and glanced down at the floor, but perhaps to spare him further pain, Bren asked, "There's a werewolf cult?"

Bob nodded. "There's a cult for everything. I betcha I could find one for Toilet Duck given half a chance. These Red Wolves bozos seem to think that lycanthropy isn't a demonic virus but a metamorphic stage between man and god - they think they're semi-divine, but only when in their wolf form. So they learn to trigger it themselves, and figure one day they'll ascend, meaning be all wolf all the time."

"Yeah, 'cause gods run around tearing people up and eating housecats," Xander commented sarcastically.

Bob shrugged, and said cryptically, "That's a bad example. But still, complete bollocks. The things people will convince themselves of, you know?"

Angel sheathed his sword, and held up his hand in a "stop" gesture. "Bob, clearly you know what's going on, more than any of us. So why don't you fill us in?"

Xander continued to stare at Bob like he wasn't sure if he was wasting all their time, or was just a ticking time bomb. "So gods eat cats? Huh. You learn something new every day. Look, who the fuck are you exactly?"

Bob flashed him an exasperated look, but it was actually fairly mild in comparison to the looks he'd seen an irritated Bob give people. But, admittedly, he gave those looks generally before the recipients of the look keeled over, unconscious or worse. "I am Bob Oberon, better known 'round these parts as Maximum Bob. I'm a very old Belial demon with a … complicated bloodline, so let's leave it there for now. I usually have more power than I have right now, and the gods know me. Most don't like me."

"Jeeze, I wonder why." Xander looked rather pointedly at the corpse on the floor of his trailer.

"Bob - what's going on?" Angel urged, getting him back on track.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, and Angel could tell he was mentally adjusting his story to make it acceptable for Xander to hear. Clearly he didn't want to spill the beans on his godhood status, although he wasn't sure what difference it would make. "I've already told you. The Senior Partners have declared war on you and on me, but because they can't attack me directly, they're using proxies. But this time, they're using massively powered proxies. This isn't kid stuff."

"Why can't they attack you directly?" Naomi asked.

"They'd start up the war between them and the Powers That Be all over again; it'd be in violation of the agreement. And believe me, even _they_ don't want to see a return to the bad old days."

"Huh?" Xander didn't look just deeply confused, but extremely pissed off.

"How powerful are these proxies exactly?" Giles asked, sticking to the most important point. "If I'm correct, Taqwus was a trickster god, yes? But she - he - said they were stuck in a mortal form, so clearly he was empowered, although presumably he retained his soul sucking abilities."

"Correctomundo."

"There can't be that many depowered gods or demi-gods. Do I assume that some of the ones they're sending after us aren't quite so fragile?"

"You'd bet right. The Galleria proves that, if nothing else."

Bren seemed to perk up, his eyes lighting up with sudden fascination. "What? The thing that happened at the Galleria was a Partners attack?"

"No, it was the arrival point of a god who requires a sacrifice or two to manifest himself on this plane. Or at least they wanted it to look that way."

Xander finally stepped forward, interested and yet still vaguely appalled. He didn't like the idea of having Xander tag along again - a civilian with no powers at all; a willingness to fight didn't make up for his myriad vulnerabilities, as well as his tendency to be an annoying smart ass - but if he was a target just because he kind of used to know him, he had to do _something_ with him. To leave him behind was to leave him to die. "What the hell happened there? At first they said it was a terrorist attack, but then I heard it was a fire that filled the ventilation system with toxic smoke. It was some damn demon thing?"

Bob shook his head, and looked strangely melancholy, although it was belied by a quicksilver anger that seemed to flash through his eyes. "The people, as I said, were sacrifices. They were presumably flash-fried in the unbearable brilliance of a god, but I know it's bullshit. It was staged by the Partners to hurt me, but it's not going to work. All I want to do is kill the fuckers myself now."

"How was it meant to hurt you?" Giles look suggested he was about to punch him for being an arrogant bastard, and the level stare Bob gave him in return seemed to suggest he knew it.

"It was a total mimic of Ananga's powers at their maximum. An utter slap in the face. Ananga's dead, and he's been dead for a long time."

Although Bob turned away, back towards the door, Giles kept staring at him, confusing making him seem charmingly befuddled. "Ananga? That's an epithet of Kama, the Hindu god of love, isn't it? That's not the name of a god - it just means "the bodiless"."

"Mythology is like a third rate tabloid; there's a kernel of truth, but it's buried among a ton of shit. Ananga was a god, and he had nothing to do with love or Kama, trust me. I know Ganesha."

Naomi exchanged a quizzical glance with Bren, who just shrugged at her tacit question.

"So who is Ananga then?" Giles continued, following Bob out the door. Angel followed right behind him, mainly because the cool night air, although redolent of exhaust, still smelled better than Taqwus's dead body. "Bob, what are we dealing with here?"

Bob sighed loudly and turned to face them, but he had the strangest look on his face. It was one of complete despair, and yet complete rage; the look of someone who had given up, but was still going to take it out on the first available target. It wasn't a look he'd ever seen on Bob's face before, and he didn't like it. Even with his powers reduced to almost nothing, Bob's ability to overwhelm the will of anyone in his orbit made him incredibly dangerous. "It doesn't matter, Rupert. It's not Ananga we're dealing with. It can't be."

"Why not? Gods reincarnate all the time - you even said you would." (From the back, he heard Xander exclaim in disbelief, _"He's a god? Since when are gods Australian?")_

Bob let the silence stretch, which was a bad enough sign on its own. Bob wasn't quiet; sometimes he seemed physically incapable of shutting up. When he spoke, his voice was a low whisper, nearly swallowed by the noise of passing cars. "He can't come back. I dispersed him myself; I actually incorporated some of his energy into me. Resurrection is impossible."

Although that was as reassuring as that was disturbing, there was still something that didn't make sense. Angel has a feeling he might regret it, but he had to ask, "Why would the Senior Partners think his return would hurt you?"

Bob turned and walked away, and he thought he wasn't going to answer, but after a moment, he heard his answer carried on the wind, soft syllables of utter defeat. "Because he was my son."

6

Sometimes he got the best cell phone signal on the porch. He didn't know why, it was just some irregular curiosity.

So he sat on the porch with a beer, watching the nocturnal animals and owls scurry and flit in the dark barrier of trees. When he was dragging the diseased tree back here the other day, he smelled a bear, but he hadn't seen it yet, and was almost disappointed. They were beautiful animals, and honestly, as long as you left them alone and didn't leave any tempting trash about, they'd leave you alone too. He thought he saw the bright eyes of a raccoon looking at him from under a shrub, and thought it was a bit far for its range, but oh well. Global warming and all that.

He'd punched up the number of Abrams three times, and each time disconnected before hitting the send button. He couldn't believe he was actually afraid to call him, but part of him just didn't want to know. This was a trap, it had to be, and yet … how much did he want to know about himself? What little he did know he wasn't crazy about. He was a spy for the allies in World War Two, and later on a mutant assassin - he was a hero and a villain. He didn't want to be either.

The raccoon came out of the shrubbery, a tangle of blackberry bushes, and seemed to stare at him, front leg raised as if about to make a dash if he made a single false move. "I'm no threat to you, Rocky," he muttered. Its black pad of a nose quivered, ears shifting forward, but otherwise remained motionless. For its sake, he hoped wolverines - as in the animals - didn't come around here, as it would be dead in no time. Wolverines were such nasty little animals, he supposed he could guess how he got his codename.

Finally he punched in a number and listened to the distant ring, which was surprisingly clear in spite of the distance. Bob had the best cell phones, just like he had the best of everything.

After the third ring, the phone was picked. "Yello?"

"Marc, hey, it's me."

"Julius! Man, I was wondering when you were gonna call me! You left your thong here last night …" he trailed off into a giddy snicker.

"You're such an asshole."

"And that's what you love about me, Logan. What can I do you for?"

He heard clattering in the background, a metal spoon against a metal pan, and figured he was cooking. Marc was really a good cook; he needed to get him to make an omelet for him again someday. "How are you doin'?"

"Fine and dandy. But that's not why your callin'."

He frowned at the phone, hating it that Marc knew him that well. "Can't I even get some pleasantries out of the way?"

"You could, but that seems suspicious." Something hissed in the near background, liquid hitting a hot pan.

No foreplay was necessary with Marcus, and you had to like that about him. It was one of his most endearing qualities. "Okay. Look, how well do you know Toronto?"

"As in Ontario, the Hollywood North? Pretty well. I have a bunch of satellite maps if you need me to look up something specific."

He smiled and shook his head, the slight movement making the relaxing raccoon freeze again. This was exactly why he called Marc. There wasn't a single damn thing he couldn't investigate in depth. He missed his calling as a private detective, or an instigator of violent coups. "What I need is a good place for a public meeting, that will give you lots of sniper opportunities. Can you think of any spots like that?"

He was quiet for a moment, and the background hiss of food in a pan faded, and the sound of typing on a keyboard became louder. "Uh … got a couple of good spots, actually. What d'ya want? Downtown, outskirts, good neighborhood or bad?"

"Damn, you're scary."

He scoffed. "Comin' from you, that's a compliment. So what's the deal?"

"I think the Organization is going to try and spring another trap on me. I'm supposed to meet with a guy who supposedly wants to make amends with me."

"But you don't trust him."

"Not in the least. So I want you watching my back."

"With a loaded sniper rifle?" He sounded amused, which he thought he might. "What's the protocol?"

"If you see what looks like Org assholes closing in or setting up shop, take 'em out. And if I give you the high sign, splatter my companion's brains all over the pavement."

"Okay, so we're done with subtlety?"

"Subtlety's for pussies."

He chuckled, and Logan heard keyboard tapping once more. "Okay, I got a couple of downtown spots that'll be really prime. I'll have a three hundred and sixty degree view, and you should have a pretty open view down below, but limited to the street."

"Great. Let's hear 'em, in order of most favored to what you'll settle for."

So Marcus began listing streets and locations, some of which he'd heard of, some of which he hadn't. They'd also decided the sooner they could arrange the meet, the less time the Organization would have to set up a complicated trap, meaning they had to do some math on how fast they could both get to Toronto.

Yes, it might be better to call in Xavier and Scott, let them come along, but they would be too nice. At the end of the day, he didn't want to be nice with these stupid motherfuckers, who'd haunted him and made him jump through hoops for too fucking long.

He wanted to remind them he was called Wolverine for a reason.

* * *

Bob had simply turned a corner ahead of them, but he'd disappeared with such rapidity that Angel was certain he'd teleported. He supposed he could technically understand, having "killed" his own son once, but his son wasn't actually dead, just enjoying a more regular life. If Bob had "dispersed" him, he really had permanently killed his own son. Why?

"What the hell kinda god kills his own kid?" Xander exclaimed, sounding horrified. "And why I am following you?"

"You do need to come with us, for your own safety," Giles assured him. "At least until this comes to an end."

"But you're the guys they want to kill," he protested, but anemically, and seemed to relent with a sigh.

He couldn't be angry at Bob, mainly because he knew sometimes things between supernatural fathers and sons could get carried to an unbelievably lethal level. Sometimes you had to choose between your child and other people; sometimes you had no choice. But that didn't make you feel any better; it didn't make you feel any less guilty, even if it was the right or only thing to do.

He hated having something vaguely in common with Bob, he really, _really _did.

They had taken to the sidewalks, walking down the neon lit corridors of Los Angeles, because it seemed generally safer to be out of the shadows for now, at least while they had Xander with them. Angel knew he'd feel better once he could drop Xander off at the office. And since it was L.A., the fact that he was carrying a sword, and that the red eyed Brendan was carrying a crossbow, never even got them a second glance. They weren't as weird as some other things out here, which was both a good and a bad thing about the city.

"What do you know about Ananga?" Naomi asked Giles.

He shrugged helpless. "As I said, it's basically a nickname for Kama, not the name of any god that I know of."

"So what's this Kama like?"

"Wait," Bren exclaimed "Kama - as in Kama Sutra?"

"Yes, exactly. Although I call him a love god, technically Kama is the embodiment of sexual and creative energy, as in Hindu mythology those two things are often inextricably entwined."

"Wait," Naomi said. "If Ananga is a nickname of Kama … is it possible that Bob is Kama?" That suggestion made them all stop and turn to look at her, and she briefly cringed at the scrutiny. "I mean, if mythology sometimes gets things wrong, and gender and race is irrelevant to gods, couldn't he have been given that name at some point? Bob has to exist somewhere in mythology, doesn't he? And whoever heard of a god named Bob?"

That was a good point, and - as with everything about Bob - slightly troubling. Bob did have what might be considered qualifications for "love godhood" - look at all the marriages and children he had, for one, and the fact that most women and many men seemed to be instantly beguiled by his overwhelming charm.

"What powers did Kama have?" Bren finally asked.

Giles pushed his glasses up in a nervous gesture as he racked his brains for the knowledge. "Well, actually there are several different stories for Kama, depending on which interpretation you subscribe to. Some have him as one of the beginning creator forces of the universe; others have him as a type of law giver; and others still have him as the embodiment of sexual desire, capable of overwhelming man and gods alike. Generally he's considered to be eternally young and one of the most handsome gods in the pantheon."

At that, they all exchanged wary glances. "Okay, that last one applies," Bren admitted.

"He's not _that_ good looking," Xander claimed weakly. Even he didn't seem to buy it, although not for lack of trying.

Before the conversation could go any further, there was a loud "bang" that made Angel jump and spin defensively towards the street, primed for action. But there was no need, as it was simply a car accident at the main intersection, a Corvette and a Honda both trying to cross into the same lane at the same time. Although both had crumpled front ends that looked horrifically mashed together, windshields reduced to a fine spider web of cracks, both drivers were getting out of their cars to yell at each other, so the accident itself couldn't have been as severe as it looked. Air bags did have their good points.

Yet as he turned away, he heard a woman sitting in a parked car up the block from them begin to scream and cry, pleading with a passenger who wasn't there. Angel just had time to register this anomaly before even more cars started to crash into each other, and one man came screaming down the street, fleeing from something that wasn't chasing him. He felt … something odd, a wave of coldness that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Anyone else feel that?"

"I did," Bren offered, gripping his crossbow tightly. So only the demons picked it up? That wasn't encouraging.

"What?" Giles asked.

"What's going on?" Xander asked, looking at the people almost coming to physical blows in the street, ignoring the people who had abandoned their cars to collapse in the street, on glittering beds of broken glass, to sob inconsolably. "Did somebody announce a Carrot Top comeback?"

Giles had been studying a couple of people not far from them, one crouched defensively in the doorway of shop, another a homeless man who continued walking down the street, now having a conversation with someone who wasn't there. "You're not sensing a ghost, Angel?"

"No."

"All right, then we have two possibilities: mass hysteria, or mass hallucinations. By spell or by god."

"Then why weren't we affected?" Bren asked, then got a startled look on his face. "Unless we're the only people seeing this …"

"I'm afraid it's nothing so prosaic," a familiar, startling voice said behind them. "Regrets are being personified, but only the person with regrets can see them. It's a terrible punishment, isn't it? To be alone with your ghosts."

Angel turned, aware of what he would see, and yet terrified of it all the same. He tried to will it away, convince himself he'd see nothing at all, but it didn't work. Standing there, leaning against the street light and looking at him with a slightly expectant expression, was Wesley.


	5. Chapter 5

Angel just stared at him a moment, making sure he didn't go away if he willed him away (no), then asked, "Does anyone else see him?"

Wesley just cocked his head curiously, looking to the others for an answer. Bren did a double take, but not in Wesley's direction - he was looking towards a store front. "Holy shit!"

Giles winced as if hit, and said wearily, "You mean she not he, correct?"

Xander closed his eyes and turned away, towards Wesley. "Yeah, you screwed up the gender."

"Regrets personified," Wesley said once more, and Angel finally got what he was trying to tell him.

"Everyone, tell me who you're seeing. I'm seeing Wesley."

"Wesley?" Giles asked, surprised. "I'm seeing Jenny."

"Ms. Calendar?" Xander replied. "I'm seeing Anya."

"I'm seeing Matt," Bren reported.

After a moment, Naomi said, "Should I be feeling left out because I'm not seeing anyone out of the ordinary?"

Angel looked at her curiously. "You have no regrets?"

She shrugged sheepishly, and began to say, "Well, I do …"

She was interrupted by Wesley, although she didn't hear that. "Her regrets can't be personified. She regrets the loss of so many memories; that's a purely abstract concept."

"Huh. Amnesia seems to be protecting you from this, simply because your regrets aren't tied to a person - it's a thing."

Giles moved closer to him, probably to be in his direct line of sight, but also to avoid looking at Jenny. "How do you know that?"

"Wesley told me." Now that he said it, it sounded silly.

"I'm just being cussed out," Xander said, the cant of his head suggesting he was trying not to hear, but also felt he deserved it.

"Why is he … helping you?" Giles wondered, his tone of voice suggesting this was all suspicious.

And it was, but Wesley simply said, "Because you seem to believe that he would."

Angel felt a stab of guilt run through him, but repeated what he said. Giles simply adjusted his glasses and nodded, trying hard not to look in the direction where Jenny must have been.

People around them continued to react in a mostly poor manner to the return of their personal regrets, while Naomi looked around, seemingly searching in vain for her own. Wesley came to stand beside them but just slightly removed, like he was honestly part of the group. "You should get off the street," Wesley said, continuing to survey the chaos around them. "Perhaps Giles can conjure up some protective spell, or if it's a god's influence, appeal to the Church of the Stone Temple for a blessing."

"That's a good idea. We should go to the Stone Temple."

Xander gave him the most bewildered stare. "We should go to a Stone Temple Pilots concert? Man, I hate to break it to you, but I think they've broken up."

Bren ignored that. "We should?"

Giles got it. "Yes. It may have a protective influence, and no matter how bad the god in question, they'll probably be reluctant to defile another god's hallowed ground. Especially the Gorgons."

"Yeah. When they get mad - wow." Bren grabbed his pendant, and his eyes widened as if he just got an electric jolt. "Shit!"

Angel reached up for the sword again, but he saw Wesley shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Matt just disappeared."

"And we have our confirmation," Wesley said, sounding a bit proud of himself. "The Gorgons' blessings are stronger then whoever's causing this."

"Okay, let's go. Bren, lead the way." It was the one break they had caught so far this evening, beyond Bob walking in on Taqwus before he could start trying to kill them. But it was possibly their last break, until they could find Bob again.

Where the hell had he gone?

* * *

Was there anything colder than a cement killing floor? Bob didn't think so, although he supposed the Antarctic, and certain hell dimensions might be colder. But barely.

He had stripped down to his boxers, and since they were silk he regretted putting them on today, but oh well, he couldn't do anything about it now. He sat down on the cold, cold floor, and shivered even before he brought the equally icy blade up to his arm and started carving.

He'd fortified himself with a stiff shot of rev, a demon specific upper, so it didn't hurt that much as the tip of the blade penetrated the first layer of his skin, and he began slicing the patterns. The cuts weren't deep, and couldn't be, simply because he had so many to do - he couldn't lose so much blood he'd pass out before he was through. Just in case, a little garter snake watcher of Degei's was hiding in a shadowy corner of the room, keeping dark eyes trained on him.

Bob carefully cut swirls and loops all over his arms and chest, his blue blood swelling up and spilling out over the patterns, running ink on fresh tattoos. The blood began to patter on the floor, a dribble becoming a weak stream, but the circle of chalk and smudged sage contained it. He was a little light headed and achy when he worked on the last parts of the pattern, two spirals carved in his upper thighs, and used the hand mirror to slice a pattern into his cheeks. On the right, a swirl that also encircled his eye, and on the left a sort of scar pattern, three small gashes in a row like claw marks.

Finally done, he blinked blood out of his eyes as he set the mirror down, and wiped the blood slicked knife on his leg before tucking it in the back of his boxer shorts. He stood up, holding his arms out for maximum blood drippage, and started saying the incantation - the one not in any book or scroll or archive on the planet, because no one here could do the summoning, even if they knew the words. You needed the Blood to open the door, and while he didn't have the powers, he still had the Blood.

The warehouse trembled, as if an earthquake had begun, but it was contained to this barren, dark room, and he shouted the final words angrily, adrenaline kicking in and giving him a fresh wave of energy and rage. Finally a wound opened in the air, a gash bleeding corrosive orange light, and he took a deep breath sour with baked blood and charred bones.

Did other people have to do this shit to talk to their ex-wife? He bet not.

Finally she appeared out of the wound, a glowing apparition limned with reddish orange light, her form humanoid and attractive for it, long and lean, her orange skin flawless, her deep black eyes like wells, her hair a mid-length fall of the purest burnt sienna. She wore what could have been a clingy green silk robe with plunging décolletage, but he knew it was just light. Indrani was technically a much more powerful god than him, but it all depended on how you used the power; she was all about the big, ham-fisted stuff. That's why his preference for subtlety took her by surprise. At the end of the day, the better liar won.

Not that she saw it that way. She sneered at him, revealing newly pointed incisors. "Finally, you call. What do you want, an anniversary card?"

She had started to advance on him, but thought better of it. The pattern he'd carved into his body was protective, with his blood making the wards that much more powerful; she couldn't breach the circle or touch him without hurting herself badly. The Old language he'd written on the walls and on the floor in front of the door would keep her from leaving. She was stuck here, and the only place for her to go was back to her sub-dimension. "I think you know what's going on, Indrani. Are you working with them?"

She gazed at her green fingernails as if she'd just painted them. "Work? Honey, have you forgotten which ex of yours I am?"

"Try this coy shit with me, and I will say the Words. I'm in no mood to fuck around."

At the mention of the Words, her eyes focused once again on him, her glare molten. "_That_ is a change for you. Are you no fun anymore?"

He said one of the Words, and she reeled back, as if her body was real and he had just punched her in the stomach. When she recovered enough to look at him again, she had opened three eyes along her forehead, which leaked hot orange light out into darkness. "You impotent little Power," she growled, in a voice so deep and gravelly it sounded like the Earth itself was speaking to him. "You think I don't know you're trapped in a shell? I can smell the stink of it."

"And I can still hurt you in spite of it, so you'd best knock the shit off now. The Partners have something here impersonating our son. Are you helping them?"

At the mention of their son, she straightened up, and a smug look came over her face, her orange eyes half lidded and smoldering like embers. "Ahh, beautiful An. The child you murdered in cold blood. How do you sleep at night? If you do - but then, you did go native, didn't you? You and your precious Humans …"

"You'd know all about cold blood, wouldn't you? Now answer my fucking question, Dran, or you're going to hear another one."

Her look was sour, and probably would have been disemboweling under normal circumstances. As far as he could tell, their entire relationship had been a lie, but the why of it was baffling. It was hard to believe that she would work in concert with the Senior Partners, but why not?

For a while, she was on Earth, and they had a hell of a time. They were sort of married in a god sense, if not in a legal sense. Then one day she just disappeared back to her home dimension without a word. When he went after her, she told him simply that it was fun, but she couldn't stand Humans any longer, and as an extra flourish, locked him out of her dimension. He didn't even know about their son until he came to earth at the head of an apocalyptic army. As far as he was able to make out, it was all an attempt to incorporate some of the Powers' energy into a darker force, and supposedly create a hybrid being more powerful than either parent. He was; it almost worked. He had to call in the collective energy of the other Powers (who blamed him and his "repulsive urges" for the problem), to defeat Ananga, and he incorporated just enough of Ananga's energy to lock Indrani into her home dimension. He would have preferred to lock Ananga away too, but the Powers didn't give him a choice, and it was probably impossible anyways.

"It's not a fake - it's Ananga. Karma's a bitch, isn't it?"

He shook his head. "What did I say about bullshit?"

"It's not bullshit, you naïve little pretty boy. Did you think that I didn't anticipate that you might be so enamored of your pets that you'd kill your own blood to save them? I spirited away part of his essence - to put it in Human terms, I made sure there was a clone standing by. Sadly, I didn't get quite enough. It's taken awhile to get him up to speed."

She had to be lying; it certainly wouldn't be new for her. And yet it was just chilling enough to have a ring of truth to it. "No."

"Oh yes. Suck it up, Bob."

Perhaps the worst part was she was enjoying this. He was so angry, shades of blue were creeping into the edges of his vision. "What is the point of this, Dran? What the fuck could you want?"

She stared at him with all five eyes, a look of triumphant arrogance making her delicate features look as sharp as broken glass. "Are you that stupid? You know this plane is the nexus, the gateway to a thousand different dimensions. Reality is thin here, in some spots worn down to a mere tissue - who _wouldn't _want that? Control the gateway, control everything beyond it. Isn't that why you want to protect it so badly?" She then chuckled, but it was a mirthless thing, as dry as the desert. "Oh, that's right. You have some affection for the little primates on this dirtball, and all your half-breed children …"

"Ananga is going to die again," he snarled, ignoring the sick twisting in his gut. Second verse, same as the first, and he had a feeling the fact that repetition wasn't going to make it easier.

"Not by your hand," she replied, gloating. "You're just a shell now; you've been neutered by your so-called "people". You are helpless before his might. Isn't that a pity?"

He wasn't helpless, and he figured she should have known better. But were there enough people who could actually help him?

The fact that he might have to ask other people to kill his son this time didn't make it any easier.

7

Angel looked through the shop front window incongruously a part of the Church of the Stone Temple, trying to see the others inside, beyond the front display of a granite fountain, garden gazing ball, and fake, trailing ivy. What was that about anyways? Did they sell garden accessories on the side?

"You could have gone in," Wesley pointed out. "You could have tolerated a blessing."

Was there any point in lying to him? It wasn't that he was actually Wesley; he was just his mind's best approximation of Wesley, guilt driven and spell enhanced. With the slightest of sighs, he admitted, "I think you know why I didn't go in."

Wesley nodded knowingly, gazing in the window beside him. "You don't want me gone just yet. You think I can help."

"You already did."

He shrugged. "If you say so. But constantly talking to an apparition only you can see might undermine some confidence in you."

"I can live with it. I've lived with worse."

"There's nothing I can do that Giles can't. Believe me, of the two of us, Rupert is much better at all of this."

He turned his gaze on him in quiet disbelief. "Don't try and talk me out of it. I can't believe you would -"

Angel broke off, as he saw something curious down the street, just past Wesley. The chaos - which was mostly random outbursts of hysteria - was continuing, but the violence was nominal; most people were too horror stricken at their own personal demons to lash out at other people, and even when they did, it was brief. So the thing he saw was unusual because of its movement; it was like a huge, dark cloud had suddenly blown in and taken humanoid shape at the corner, but a dark and featureless form that seemed to be constantly shifting and shimmering. As soon as Angel realized it was a humungous swarm of insects - beetles? - it walked right into a man. He made the briefest strangling noise, then fell through the insect man … and hit the sidewalk behind it as a bunch of bones tangled within clothing, his sunglasses bouncing along the sidewalk.

Angel reached for his sword, but Wesley said, "Wait! I think that's the god of the Awa-hon-do. Turn away, pretend you didn't notice him - if we don't take him by surprise, you won't get a chance."

Reluctantly, he faced the window again, but kept an eye on bugman's reflection. "Because he can break into a thousand different pieces and reform again?"

"Exactly. He is a collective god, one of many parts. You can kill him with the sword, but only if he doesn't see it coming. Otherwise he'll just break up before the blow, and being a vampire won't save you from his attack. He's a flesh eater, and you have that."

The bugman didn't seem to notice him, or the sword on his back, suggesting that Giles's cloaking spell was still holding (a relief), but as it walked behind him, he couldn't help but tense. The thing hummed, like the buzz of ten thousand bees in the hollow confines of a hive, and it was enough to make your skin crawl. It almost felt like one of the bugs was skittering up his spine. Why was he getting stuck with all the bug demons today?

It walked past, its gait unusual and loping, a mimic of something it had seen but didn't understand, and as soon as it was by him, Wesley whispered, "Now."

Angel did it all in a single smooth motion. He turned and pulled his sword, slashing towards the dark agglomeration of insects as he completed his spin. The sword chopped through the insects at chest level, sending dead bugs flying like pebbles down the sidewalk, and the rest of his loosely formed body collapsed in a writhing mass. Angel stabbed the sword down into the sidewalk, in the center of the largest group of bugs, and just the proximity of the sword killed the bugs. It was that toxic, and gaining more power with each kill.

He was aware of a slight trembling in the ground, a sound like percussion, and he heard Wesley say, "Oh no."

Angel turned back around to see, at the head of the street, and oncoming wave of big, ugly demons dressed in matching, vaguely Nazi-like black uniforms, marching stiff legged in front of an ever larger demon, a kind he'd never seen before. It was nine feet tall and appeared to be have metal skin, which seemed grossly appropriate with its bullet shaped head and pincer shaped hands. "I know that's the Scourge," he said, nodding at the black clad demon bastards, the ones who killed Doyle. "But what the hell is that thing?"

"I think it's a Dolonnite," Wesley replied, sounding breathless with shock.

"Dolonnite? As in Dolonn, demon god with metal blood?"

"One and the same."

"So the sword won't kill it?"

"Correct."

"Shit." Douglas Adams was a prophet: it was a universal truth that nothing was ever so bad that it couldn't get worse.

One of the scourge, surely the leader, had a megaphone and was announcing exactly how the Humans were going to die before their superior might, and many of the soldiers had doubled headed battleaxes, pikes, spears, maces, and at least one had a chainsaw (they must have emptied the whole tool shed). People were fleeing before them, but clearly some thought it was just a really vivid hallucination and ignored it. Angel moved out to the center of the street, sword held high, as the sword would kill the Scourge if not their Dolonnite friend - he decided he'd worry about killing it when it was about to kill him - when Wesley suddenly shouted, "Behind you!"

But it was too late. Tentacles like strong, fine wires wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his side as it yanked him backwards violently, dragging him down the street. The sword of Weyland almost smashed into his face, and he was glad that Giles had thrown a charm on it so it wouldn't kill him if he slipped up and touched it - and yet, was it strong enough? This close to the blade, he still felt sick, like the sword was draining energy from him.

A glance back confirmed what the smell of rotting fish had already told him - he'd been grabbed by a Tinirau. It looked humanoid, but only up to the waist; it had muscular, stocky legs, and slender humanoid hips, but from the waist up it was little more than an open mouth, a triangular shark's mouth with three rows of razor sharp teeth, the arms at its side becoming dozens upon dozens of thin but virtually unbreakable tentacles/tendrils, that could grow as long as they needed to, up to fifty feet in length. It was one of the most butt ugly demons around, and rarely seen this far inland. But tonight, clearly all bets were off. The Senior Partners must have called in all their debts, or made every deal they thought possible.

He saw the door to the Stone Temple had opened, and the others poured out to see the near apocalyptic scene unfolding in the street. "Holy shit!" Xander exclaimed, as Bren quickly swung his crossbow around and took a shot at the Tinirau. It hit home, he heard it make a gurgling noise like a toilet clogging up, but it didn't slacken its grip on him, nor stop hauling him backwards towards its mouth. It would take a lot to kill a Tinirau; in fact, as far as he knew, the only things that could kill one were certain spells, acid, and - of all things - alcohol. Alcohol was like cyanide to them.

From his vantage point on his back, Angel saw several things, none of which were any good. A fly like Beezle demon was crawling down the outer wall of the record shop down the street, the sack in its throat starting to distend as it prepared to vomit digestive acid on a group of startled people who seemed to be searching for television cameras; and on the roof of the novelty gift shop at the corner were two silhouetted figures looking down at the marching Scourge, and one of those silhouettes could only have been Spike.

"The Beezle," he shouted at Bren, jerking his head towards the insectoid demon. Bren obeyed, quickly shifting his aim from the Tinirau to the Beezle and firing. It was a good shot, it hit the ugly demon right in the center of the chest, but that wasn't even close to a killing blow for its species. All it did was get the Beezle to switch its attention, and the people below him finally looked up, and noticed what kind of trouble they were in.

"Xander, your flask!" Angel shouted, as he realized he was almost in the Tinirau's line of bite.

Xander stared after him like he was nuts. "What?"

But Giles already knew the situation, and reached into Xander's coat, finding the flask and ripping it out of his interior pocket. He stepped out into the street, ripping the cap off, and threw the whiskey on the Tinirau.

Instantly the tentacles holding him went slack, and Angel jumped up to his feet, holding the sword away from him, as the Tinirau reeled and screamed, which sounded more like a drain overflowing. Angel spun and drove the sword right through its mouth and out the back of its head, helping it die a little faster.

"There's a demon that's allergic to Jack Daniels?" Xander asked, bewildered. "Now that's specializing."

"What do we do about the big ugly?" Bren asked, looking down his crossbow at the Scourge and their Dolonnite friend.

Giles exchanged a helpless look with Angel, unaware that Wesley was standing just behind him, grimacing in thought.

Just then, the neon sign in front of a tattoo parlor flickered and faded, as did all the streetlights, and a massive glow started filling the corner of his eye. They turned to see Naomi had become a battery, and all the electricity was snaking towards her, living streams of blue energy bleeding from signs, pouring from streetlights and stoplights, pooling at her feet and crawling up her body until she had a visible blue-white aura. She walked out into the center of the street to intercept the Scourge, the streams of energy following her like obedient dogs, and energy began bleeding from cars, joining the streams of electricity that were now quickly becoming a living, endless river. "I'm a Human," she shouted at the Scourge, as she quickly became the brightest thing on the block, a false sun almost painful to look at. The leader of the Scourge suddenly had his megaphone lose its energy in a large spark that jumped towards Naomi and made him drop it, shaking his hand in pain. "Want to start with me?"

The wall of black clad demons actually hesitated and stopped, and the one with the chainsaw tossed it aside just before the motor exploded, overloading. The static electricity was so great Angel could feel his hair responding to it, sparks crackling in the breeze. In the reflected light of Naomi, he could see Spike's face, and he looked equally shocked and horrified. Did the Senior Partners not do their homework on Naomi? She couldn't be hurt by electricity; she could absorb and control amounts whose lethality couldn't be calculated - such as now. She could power a city block, or the entire city itself; even Naomi had no idea what her upper limit was. And now the Scourge and their Dolonnite friend - who probably conducted electricity like a treat - didn't know what to do. All Naomi had to do was will it, and all that electricity would change direction, and head straight for them like a tidal wave.

"What a brave woman," Giles whispered in admiration.

Yes, she was. It was easy to see why Logan had fallen in love with her.

"Uh .. . How's she doing that?" Xander asked. "Is she a witch or something?"

There was no chance to answer him, as screams erupted behind them, and they turned away from Naomi single handedly holding back the Scourge to see that at least a dozen vampires - two nests' worth, perhaps more - were swarming out of the shadows and picking off the Human escapees at the end of the street. "I think we can handle this," Giles noted grimly, pulling a stake out of his coat. They all had stakes, in fact, although Angel didn't bother with his, since the sword was better.

"Anyone got one for me?" Xander wondered, and Bren gave him one of his stakes. "Thanks. Dusted a lot of vamps?"

"Until they killed me, yeah."

Even Angel didn't know what Bren meant by that.

But there was no time to talk about it, as they all charged into the fray, ramming stakes through vampire hearts, while Angel contented himself with slicing off their heads. Bren proved he had indeed turned himself into an amateur vampire slayer by taking on two or three at once, using a spinning kick to send one reeling while he staked another, and used his Brachen strength to throw a third straight into Xander, who obliged by staking it. For a guy who had been out of the game for a while, Xander hadn't lost the knack, which was good, because that meant he didn't have to worry about him.

Angel had just impaled two vamps with one stab - rare two-fers like that were always strangely satisfying - when he saw the Beezle come flying out of the bulk of the crowd. It landed hard on the hood of a parked Mustang, leaving a good sized dent, and rolled over on its side. Angel realized it was trying to pull something out of its mouth - it looked like a concrete block - when a woman with long brown hair stormed through the crowd and grabbed it by the head. "I hate you fucking things," she snapped, ramming its head violently into the hood. "Vomiting on people? How fucking gross is that?"

The woman pulled out a large hunting knife, one that Angel would have sworn was in the hands of a vampire he saw a couple of minutes ago, and neatly decapitated the Beezle. Its head rolled off one side of the hood while the body slumped down the other side, its acidic blood burning a trail in the hood. He knew her, didn't he? Her body was familiar, her smell was familiar, her fighting style was familiar. But he couldn't believe it.

"The Powers work in mysterious ways," Wesley noted wryly.

She turned around, holding the knife - now sizzling with acid - and her eyes settled on him in the crowd. "Angel?" she gasped, surprised. "Hey man, how's it hanging?"

Angel couldn't help but smirk, never as glad to see Faith as he was right now.


	6. Chapter 6

8

Maybe a Slayer showing up - especially a Slayer like Faith - was the final straw, but the battle was pretty much over after that. The remaining vampires skulked off into the night, and the Scourge retreated so fast Angel was half expecting to see their hats still spinning in the air, like something out of a Warner Brothers cartoon.

Naomi dropped to her knees as lights started coming back up on the street, and since she didn't look that good, he went over to her, but she stopped him. "Don't even think about coming near me," she warned, not even turning around. "I'm lethal."

She was undoubtedly being literal. The energy had gone back into its regular currents, but he had no idea how much of a charge she still maintained. If he remembered correctly, it took her a while to "work down" from a heavy charge, and this was clearly one hell of one. She might be lethal for the rest of the night. And as bad as he felt for leaving her here, she was more than okay - it was other people he was concerned about. Touch her, and they'd end up deep fried.

He told her they were doing a sweep, and then heading back to the office, just in hopes she would be powered down enough to join them later. The other streets were clear though, as everybody had gone into fall back mode. "Too many variables in play," Giles opined. "They had to regroup and reconsider their strategy."

"Isn't that always the way?" Xander said, tossing his stake from hand to hand like a juggler who'd lost his other pin and was completely unaware of it. "They underestimate the womenfolk, who end up kicking their asses. Just for once, it might be entertaining to see the men do the butt whoopin'."

Faith scoffed. "Well, it ain't gonna be done by you, macho man. Unless you happen to still have access to a rocket launcher."

"Hey, I'll have you know if I didn't show up with the booze, Angel would be freaky demon chum by now."

Angel rolled his eyes. "Oh please."

"Got any more?" Faith wondered.

Xander shook his head. "No. Giles took it all."

Faith made a show of clicking her tongue and wagging a finger at Giles. "Englishmen and their beer. It got to you too, huh?"

Giles looked deeply offended. "I _did_ not -" But he stopped as Faith grinned at him, in a way that told him it was a joke, and he gave her a scolding glance. That just made her smile more broadly.

By the time they returned to the office, the streets were so quiet and free of people that it was eerie. It seemed almost post-apocalyptic, an Earth swept clean of both Humans and demons. It was both someone's idea of heaven, and someone's idea of hell.

Faith, as it turned out, had been in Los Angeles for a while. She said rather cryptically that she'd tried the "settling down thing" in Portland (Oregon), but just couldn't hack it, and ended up back here, where she "lucked into" a job as a bouncer at the trendy celebrity nightclub Venom, a faux down market dark and dirty rock club for the nouveau riche that wouldn't dare venture into the type of neighborhood that normally had them. She had a line on a possible celebrity security job, which involved major bucks and made her rather happy at the thought of money for absolutely nothing. She said she lived in a small loft on the seedier side of West Hollywood, and was just on her way to a bar - a "decent bar", as it was her night off and she wouldn't be caught dead in Venom otherwise - when she heard the screaming and found people running like their asses were on fire. She caught a vamp having a snack, and figured it was some "demon shit", so she checked it out.

They had reached the office when Angel asked her, "Why didn't you contact me when you came back? I could have helped you."

She looked at him in disbelief and let out a slightly mocking scoff, her large eyes wide with humor. "How? I went by Wolfram and Hart, and it was just this big fucking hole in the ground. I dropped by the Hyperion, and it was little better. I figured that you went on an ass kicking holiday and just burned down every bridge you left behind. Speaking of which, where is the rest of the crew? Don't tell me Wesley decided to sit this one out."

Giles visibly flinched at his name, and Xander looked away, a flash of guilt in his eyes, while Bren, who was behind the desk checking the phone messages, looked up in open surprise. Angel felt pretty stunned too, but Wesley, standing beside him, didn't seemed surprised at all. "Who would tell her? They may have reconciled to a degree, but I doubt she and Buffy have a good relationship, and who else would have called her? Faith burned her bridges a long time ago. Just not with you."

"Let's go into my office," Angel suggested, leading the way.

After a moment's hesitation, she followed, and shut the door by leaning against it. He turned on his desk lamp, which barely illuminated his small, quiet space. It wasn't much of an office at this point - all he had was his old metal desk (a remnant from the time this was a dentist's office), a small blue velvet loveseat (Naomi's idea), an oaken bookshelf full of various tomes, including the spell books and demon dictionaries that Giles ran out of room for, and a footlocker full of weapons that doubled as a coffee table. The room was even darker than usual because, along with the drawn blinds, he stapled a sheet of black plastic over the window, simply because he was sick of people opening the blinds or drapes and burning him.

Faith sighed, continuing to lean against the door as if holding back a rampaging horde. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Angel collapsed in his leather desk chair, and weighed whether or not he should be totally blunt, or gentle somehow. Hell, this was Faith - she never wanted gentle. "Yeah, he is."

Although her shoulders sagged, she didn't look all that surprised. "How'd it happen?"

He told her the whole story, including what happened to Gunn, Fred, and Spike, and how he was gone for a couple of months in another dimension. He said that the Powers seemed to bring him back, but he didn't mention Bob's role in it. He wasn't sure she knew Bob anyways.

She sat on the loveseat, looking slightly lost, hazel eyes briefly staring at nothing. When she looked back at him, she seemed to be her usual feistier self. "Wow. When you go all out, you do it up big time, don't you?"

He shrugged. "Subtle never seems to work for me."

She ran a hand through her wavy brown hair, pushing it back, and something like disgust twisted her features. "It would have killed any of them to just call me and let me know? Hell, what about dropping me an email or something?"

There wasn't anything he could say to that, so he didn't say a word. But Wesley, standing beside his desk, said, "It's a terrible irony, isn't it? Eventually Faith and I would have the most in common - we'd both be the odd man out."

Faith kicked the back heel of her boot into the couch in frustration, just hard enough to make a good sized "thump", and let her hair fall back into her face. "Man, I always knew I was unpopular with B and her Scoobies, but I didn't realize it was quite that bad."

"That might be better than simply being forgotten," he offered weakly. It was an attempt at a joke, but he wasn't sure that was clear.

It was her turn to shrug. It was what, over a year since he'd seen her last? Close to two, perhaps, and she hadn't changed a single bit. Even her wardrobe - biker boots, worn jeans, a tight black t-shirt with the word "Psycho" emblazoned across the chest in red, and a black leather jacket - was virtually identical to the clothes she was wearing last time he saw her. Even her hair looked to be the same length. "Yeah, well, hard to forget a person when they have the "bitch from hell" rep." She paused very briefly, just long enough to signal a subject change. "So what are we fighting here? What's the game plan, boss?"

He was glad she was coming on board without him having to ask, but he actually expected that. Despite what others might have thought, he found Faith - at least nowadays - to be dependable, and genuinely sincere in her desire to help and make amends for past mistakes. He just wished he had something to tell her.

* * *

Even after everything was settled and looked good, Logan didn't trust it. But that's why he brought some camouflage.

He brought it in a cheap backpack he bought in a thrift shop. But he'd bought everything in the thrift shop, so it was eminently disposable, and it didn't matter if he got blood on them. The pants were a size too big, but he didn't care; the t-shirt was closer to a decent fit. The jacket was on the large side, but that's what he wanted. He wanted to be swallowed up by it, to hide his body shape and general physique. He shaved off his facial hair in the bathroom of a Laundromat - it wouldn't last long, but they wouldn't expect him to ever be clean shaven - and pulled a baseball cap low over his face, leaving the backpack behind in the bathroom. He made sure it was open, so nobody thought some misguided and terribly lame terrorists decided to bomb a Laundromat in a crumbling section of Toronto.

He headed out into a crisp but sunny Ontario morning, and the streets were just starting to fill up with pedestrians, workers who were just starting their morning. The scent of strong coffee and fresh doughnuts mingled with the usual sent of exhaust and cigarettes. Across the street was the café where he was meeting Abrams. He inserted the earpiece radio, tapped it, and muttered quietly, "Reading me?"

"Loud and clear." Marc replied, sounding like he was standing right behind him, and not perched on a rooftop several stories above him.

"Sit rep?"

"Clear. He's still by himself, and I don't see anyone vaguely Organization looking, which makes me kinda suspicious. Either they're waiting to move 'til you show up, or he's really alone, and I didn't need to bring a duffle bag full of rounds."

"Don't put 'em away yet. You could still get a chance to use 'em."

"I'd say I hope so, but that's kind of shitty for you."

He crossed the street with a clot of other pedestrians, about half of them talking loudly on cells, and made sure the old man sitting alone at one of the outside tables never saw him. He didn't even look his way as he walked towards the indoor half of the café. Even though Abrams claimed it wasn't a set up, he still wanted to talk to him in person, and said he could recognize him because he'd be wearing a black jacket with silver tips on the collar. He was a man in his mid to late sixties, average height, bald as an apple with a slight paunch, although he had wasted arms and a slight pallor that might indicate illness. Logan wasn't sure he trusted that, though; the pallor could be faked, or simply the result of him being a desk jockey too long.

Walking past him, several tables away, he paused and took a deep breath. There was only one more couple at the outside tables, a young pair of yuppies who were talking on their cell phones rather than to each other, and it was easy to separate their scents and weed them out. The old man did smell ill; it was the sickly sweet undertone of rot, the unmistakable reek of cancer. So he wasn't lying about that.

He went inside, and waited in a queue for a drink. Since the guy on the cell in front of him was yelling into his phone (talking to his wife, from the sound of it), he felt free to mutter, "Sit rep?"

"Clean as my black ass. They must not have recognized you in your homeless drifter garb. Also, did you shave man?"

He grunted humorlessly. "You know already." The sniper rifle Marc brought was not only huge, but had a scope on it as powerful as any telescope. He claimed he could hit a flea's navel from five hundred yards out, and Logan didn't think he was exaggerating too much. It was a monster gun, probably ones Marine snipers used in war zones, and he had little doubt that a single shot to the body would be invariably fatal, no matter where it hit. Just the shock from having a grapefruit sized hole in you would be enough to do it.

"Yeah, but … wow. Under that hair, man, you're a total stud. I forget that. We need to get you a full body wax one of these days. Women would be linin' up around the block to give you a free lap dance."

"Shaddup."

When he finally worked his way up to the head of the line, he ordered one of their tea and juice combos, only to have Marc say, "You order the frutiest drinks," and chuckle as he always did.

Logan scowled at the window, aware Marc could see him through that scope of his, and once he got his drink, he took off his jacket and draped it over the back of an empty chair, and put his baseball cap on the table. Flipping the bird towards the window - he heard Marc chuckle again - he picked up his drink and stepped outside the café, waiting for a flurry of movement. He hoped the coat was found by someone who needed it, because it had done its job for him.

He waited a full minute, taking a drink of his tea (it was good - "fruity" drink or not), then asked, "Update."

"Bupkis. I mean, there's absolutely nada. This is weird. Could the guy actually be telling the truth? Or is it more likely the troops are just in awe of how purdy you are without the face fuzz? Maybe they're stunned into immobility."

He shook his head, took another gulp of his tea, and casually glanced around the block, taking a deep breath. He didn't smell any hint of gun oil or powder, no telltale residue, no hint of oddity that would suggest a waiting soldier. "You so badly want to get in my pants."

"Ha! You're a slut. I slip you a tab of E, a glass of laudanum, and I could have you eighty ways 'til Sunday."

"Oh my god - you've actually _planned _it, haven't you?" Marcus was laughing in his ear as he stepped out from beneath the somewhat protective shadow of the building, and continued to wait for an assault. Was he really disappointed it wasn't happening? Maybe it was just disappointing that they weren't making themselves obvious. If the Organization had finally embraced subtlety, they could be trouble.

The man's back was to him. So as he walked up to his table, he muttered, "I'm goin' radio silent. Shout only if there's a problem."

"Aye aye, skipper."

Logan just walked around the small round table and plopped down in the metal frame chair opposite Abrams. The old man looked at him with weary blue-grey eyes, the bags beneath them suggesting he hadn't been sleeping well. "I take it you're satisfied that I'm here alone."

He sat back and took his measure, but it was difficult. He looked like any other old man on the street, but slightly haggard, the illness starting to show itself by the thinning of his skin. There was nothing memorable about him, and he felt no sense of déjà vu, which he'd been hoping for. "You figured I'd do that?"

"I'd think you were crazy if you didn't. But I must admit I didn't think you'd be alone."

"Who said I am?"

He smiled weakly, and nodded. "I see. You look even younger with your facial hair shaved, you know. It's strange - you seem to be aging backwards almost. I'm jealous."

"Cut the crap. What did you want to say?"

He let out a breathless chuckle, wrapping his hands around his steaming cup of espresso, his bony knuckles seemingly on the verge of bursting out of his skin. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?"

"I don't know. Really, I don't." He didn't so much stare at him as attempt to burn holes in him with his eyes. Abrams at least had the decency to wince and look down at his overpriced coffee.

"I'm so sorry, Logan. That never should have happened to you."

"What? Wiping my memories, flaying me alive, shit like that? Why are _you_ apologizing? How much of that did you do?"

He shook his head, still too ashamed to meet his gaze. "None of it. The Organization did start off good, I swear it did. It just … got militant at some point."

"If you're an apologist, I'm goin'."

"No, I'm not. They were insane; I'd never apologize for them. I'm just here for myself."

That was honest. So far, he'd gotten no strong sense he was lying, but that was somewhat troubling. "Then say what you wanna say. We're burnin' daylight here."

He smirked briefly, like he found his impatience amusing. "Do you know anything about your past?"

"Not a lot." If he wanted solid information about that, he wasn't going to get it. "What do you know?"

He cleared his throat and looked at the mottled surface of the plastic table, deciding what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. "You were a war hero, decorated many times over. You had a couple of different identities - you had a friend among the upper echelon who was happy to keep your mutancy a secret. You probably saved all our lives at least once. Everything started to go wrong shortly after the Organization became an independent, multinational force, and the incident in Kiev, after which Stryker started to turn into a psychopath."

The question that begged was obvious. "What happened in Kiev?"

He sat forward, shoulders hunching as if he was hunkering down for a long night. "It was a retrieval mission, split into two parts. Team Alpha - which Stryker was in charge of - was going to be hitting a factory where a group of rogue Soviet officers was hiding nerve gas, while Team Beta - you were in charge of that one - would be hitting a munitions depot where illegal surface to air missiles were being stockpiled for use with the nerve gas. It was assumed a dual assault would be the most effective, would keep their split response from being useful. On paper, it looked good, but on the ground, it turned out to be a trap. They expected that kind of response, and ambushed the teams. Team Alpha was completely wiped out in the initial assault, and Stryker was taken captive, but your team fared a bit better, perhaps because you got a sense it was a trap on the ground before they attacked. You lost a few men, but you completed the mission, blowing up the depot. Since you were already in the field, they asked you to take what was left of your team and extract Stryker. Because of who you were, you were given a lot of leeway in command decisions, and you knew it, which is probably why you decided to go it alone. I assume that you decided since your team was down a few men, and some were injured, that it would be best if you did it solo. You'd have the element of surprise, with part of the surprise being that only one person would come for him.

"It shouldn't have worked, but using a combination of stealth and brutality, you did it. You infiltrated the base, found Stryker, and got him out. That should have been a good thing, but Stryker was furious. As far as he was concerned, you humiliated him, and the fact that he soon discovered you were a mutant made it that much worse. His father was an admiral, and there was some talk around him that Stryker was only as highly ranked as he was due to nepotism. He was stiff and some people saw him as arrogant, but after Kiev, people saw him as incompetent, and he blamed you. He became brutal, harsh, and had a barely concealed vendetta against you. I really don't know if it even bothered you, but after the death of your wife and son, you wanted nothing to do with the Organiz -"

"Say that again?" He sat forward, not sure he'd heard him correctly, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He didn't say "wife and son", did he? He couldn't have.

Abrams gave him a scrutinizing look, although a sort of sadness had etched itself into his features, emphasizing the lines of his face. He seemed disappointed, but not surprised. "You don't remember them, do you?"

If he was lying to him, he was going to rip his fucking guts out.

9

Naomi had come back eventually and was sleeping in the spare room, as all that power converting made her tired. Actually, they were all tired - they'd been up all night, and fighting for half - but Angel felt strangely restless. Maybe the sun was up, but he still had the feeling he should be out there doing something. If the Senior Partners wanted to act with impunity, now was the time.

Giles was reading up on Ananga and basically all Hindu gods in his office, and Bren was playing a computer game with Faith, which seemed to involve blowing each other up. Xander had nodded off on the couch in the front room, in spite of the noise. Angel found himself flipping through a demon dictionary, looking up whatever he could on Dolonnites. It would be back, in spite of Naomi's display, and he wanted to be ready for it.

Suddenly the door flew open, and Bob burst in, looking quite different than he had before. Namely, he had fetishistic scars carved into his face, which looked blue due to his dried blood, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild. The noise of his entry made Xander wake up, but only when he saw him did he jump. "Jesus Christ, what happened to you?"

Bob ignored the question and ignored the startled stares, his focus solely on him. "Does Giles have the amulet of Taliesin?"

He had to think, as the name sounded vaguely familiar. But it was Wesley, standing by the window, who said, "I had it. But I think Rupert has it now."

"Yes, he does. Why?"

"He needs to activate it, and all of you need to come with me."

Faith was on her feet, looking at him warily, like she wasn't sure if she should shake his hand or break it off. "Know this guy?"

"He's Bob."

"Ah. Bit bloodier than I was expecting."

The door opened behind Angel, and he really didn't have to glance behind him to know it was Giles. "Are you all right?" He asked Bob, sounding slightly startled. Bob's blood smelled odd, as Belial blood always did, and his shirt was now sticking to his chest because of it. How many symbols did he have carved on him? There were some on his arms too, ones that looked more like Aboriginal symbols as opposed to runes or more familiar arcane ideographs. He wondered if that was important to what he had done - assuming he had carved these things on himself - or simply a personal choice. Did he practice a form of magic specific to his original home on Earth? He'd hardly be the first.

Bob shook his head dismissively, making his blood spattered hair settle around his face like a sodden mop. "I'm fine, it doesn't matter." An odd answer that seemed to contradict itself. "Look, get the amulet of Taliesin, and we'll activate it along the way. We really don't have time to discuss this."

"Why not?" Angel demanded. Bob was acting so weird he really didn't want to trust him implicitly.

Bob glared at him with those wild horse eyes of his, more cobalt than any natural blue found in life. "The Partners have brought up Azi Dahaka on the back lot of Paradigm Studios, and its eating its way through a tour group. Gonna help me or not?"

They all exchanged curious glances. "That doesn't sound good," Bren said, mastering the understatement.

"Azi Dahaka?" Faith asked, looking to Giles for an explanation.

He had to consider it a moment, but ironically, he and the representation of Wesley said it at the same time, suggesting they had memorized the same passage in the same Watchers' journal. "A three headed serpentine storm demon, known best to Iranian mythology. It's a demi-god that can only be destroyed by a river of fire."

"And where the hell are we gonna get a river of fire at this time of morning?" Xander demanded. It was a joke, but right now it just wasn't funny.

Silence settled thickly in the room, awkward and ominous, which Bob broke by saying, "The amulet, Rupert. You need to get it now, or we're totally screwed."

"We might be screwed anyways," Wesley noted. "But it's nice that he's trying to be optimistic."

You knew things were bad when the hallucinations were being sardonic.


	7. Chapter 7

Giles went to retrieve the amulet, while he went and got the sword. Bob, in all his bloody tattooed glory, followed him, and said, "Maybe you should give me the sword."

Wesley, standing off to the side, crossed his arms over his chest. "Does he mean permanently or temporarily?"

Angel simply asked, "Why?"

"Because it's a bit too sunny out there for you; you can't come with us, unless you stay in the sewer."

Shit - he hated it when he made a point he simply couldn't argue with. "I can't just stay here," he protested, but he doubted he'd be of any use in the sewer, unless they could chase Azi Dahaka down there. Would he even fit?

"You can do us some good," Bob argued. "I need you to find where Ananga is hiding. He has part of my energy signature - my Powers energy signature - and if you can isolate him, that would be great. We need to hit him before he attacks us, or anyone else. Oh, and this." He dug in his pants pocket, and pulled out a scrap of torn paper, now smeared with his blue blood. "You need to call this man. Tell him Bob is calling in his favor, and if he doesn't get his ass over here, it'll be on his doorstep sooner than he thinks."

Angel studied the paper scrap warily. It was a British telephone number, London area if he wasn't mistaken. "Who is this?"

"A sorcerer, an insanely powerful one. We could use his help. Now, the sword?"

"You really haven't told me why you want it."

He sighed impatiently, fixing him with a look that suggested he was being dense on purpose. "They want it. I want to make sure they can't get it."

"The Senior Partners? Isn't this small potatoes?"

"It' a god killer. Wouldn't you want it if they had it?"

Wesley let out a small grunt of humor. "He has you there."

Angel retrieved the sword in its special scabbard, and felt the energy bleeding through the leather. It was getting more powerful; it was getting harder to hide. He had a feeling that he would regret it, but he held out the sword towards Bob, haft first. "Are you going to destroy it?"

Bob shook his head, taking the sword with the reverence it deserved. "I don't even know how to do that. I'm going to give it to a god who can protect it, and would never have any desire to use it. The Partners might be able to track it down, but they probably won't risk entering the dimension."

"Degei," Wesley said, nodding in approval. "He's clearly a rather amenable god, but he's still a death god. That is not one you want as an enemy. And since death is his domain, the sword will mean nothing to him."

All good points; Wesley was probably right. But Bob gave him a funny look, and asked, "What do you keep looking at?"

That caught him off guard. "What?"

"You keep looking off towards the side like you're consulting someone. Is there a ghost in here I'm not picking up?"

He could hardly believe it. What did he tell him - the truth? Yeah, why not? "It's a hallucination of Wesley."

Bob simply looked at him, and then looked towards where Wesley stood. "Heya, mate. Good to have you around." Bob then turned, throwing the scabbard over his back, and walked out the door as if this had been a normal exchange.

Both Angel and Wesley stared after him for a very long minute. Finally, Wesley said, "He's a very scary man sometimes."

Angel could only nod in agreement. Bob was just too accustomed to madness to be totally sane.

* * *

Logan figured there had been too many times in his life when he wished the earth would open him up and swallow him whole. He almost regretted the feeling right now, even as he though he could feel the earth slipping from beneath his feet.

Abrams grimaced as he looked down at his coffee, swallowing back most of a cough. It was a deep rumbling cough, the type that sounded like a small earthquake, and Logan figured the cancer had spread from his liver. He probably didn't have a whole lot of time left, no matter how solid his frame looked. "I'm afraid I didn't really know her. You liked to keep your work life and your private life totally separate; I'm not sure your wife even knew exactly what you did, beyond working for the government. I just know a bunch of second hand stuff. Her name was Genevieve - you called her Genie - she was a French-Canadian half-breed, Cree, but supposedly she was gorgeous. The joke was why she was with a mutt like you, which was what you would claim when you'd talk about her. You lived in Quebec, although I'm not sure what town. I don't ... I'm sorry, I can't remember the name of your son. I'm not sure I ever knew it."

Genie? Like he sometimes slipped and called Jean "Jeanie"? Christ. Maybe he did remember her more than he ever realized. "How did they die?"

Abrams' posture seemed to tense, like he was expecting the question but still didn't like it. "Car accident. Supposedly they spun out on an icy road, went over an embankment. But you ... you insisted they were killed. You insisted that someone killed your family to get to you, and you wanted the Organization to investigate it."

Even though he'd just had a sip of his tea, his mouth went totally dry, and he could hear his hear pounding in his ears. "Did they?"

Abrams shrugged one shoulder. "There was a cursory investigation - the type made when anyone connected to the Organization died - but it concluded it was simply a tragic accident. You went ... it wasn't good enough for you. You insisted there was foul play, and accused the Organization of covering it up. Then you insisted they did it, and promised to kill whoever was responsible for it. You ... you really went down hill fast. You clearly weren't sleeping well, and you grew ever more paranoid and agitated. So that when one day you weren't there, and we were told you'd been hospitalized for "nervous exhaustion", it made sense."

He knew where this was going, didn't he? He gripped the edge of the table, because if he gripped his glass it would have made tea explode all over the table. "When I came back, I was different, wasn't I?"

He swallowed hard and nodded, not meeting his eyes. "You were like an automaton. You'd gone from grief stricken to completely blank; it was like you didn't feel anything at all. For a while I was able to convince myself that it was just a continued reaction to your grief, that you went completely the other way and just shut down completely, but there were ... other things that just didn't add up. Sometimes recent missions would be mentioned, and you'd bluff your way through reminisces, but it slowly became obvious you didn't remember a mission you completed four months previously. If someone did mention Genie - which we were explicitly told not to do - the name didn't seem to mean anything to you." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You have to understand that, at the time, I had no idea that telepaths even existed. I mean, I'd heard of mutants, sure, but that still seemed to exist totally within the realm of science fiction, you know? And while I thought Stryker was an asshole, I had no idea how ruthless he'd actually become, or how much he actually wanted to hurt you. I just thought he was a dick."

"Did he have them killed?" He didn't care what happened to him; he already knew Stryker probably had one of his pets fuck with his head, and him "going off the deep end" was just the opportunity Stryker needed to talk his boss into doing it. He just needed to know if he had actually had his wife and son murdered.

Abrams glanced down at his cup again, then looked away, the muscles in his jaw working like he was chewing something tough. Finally, he said, "I can't say with one hundred percent certainty. But after I quit the Organization and came back to Canadian Intelligence, I decided to look through the files, because by then ... I knew what he really was, and I knew what had happened to you. You weren't even close to the same man I had known - they had broken down your mind, tried to rebuild it, and the walls and mortar just kept crumbling. The more they did it, the worse it became. It looked ... there were some oddities that couldn't be adequately explained. A second set of tire treads, for example, even though it was called a one car accident; the fact that Genevieve had blood on her hands that wasn't hers or her son's; the windshield looking like it had been broken from the outside in, even though the car never did reach the trees at the bottom of the incline. Yes, Logan, I think you were right - I think your family was killed, and I wouldn't be surprised if Stryker was somehow behind it."

He closed his eyes and exhaled a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding until now. It should have made him angry, but it didn't. Stryker was dead; Stryker deserved to be dead. "There's one more thing," Abrams interjected.

He opened his eyes and looked at him levelly, feeling an otherworldly calm that he knew could become deadly any second now. "Yeah?"

"After you were hospitalized, I heard second hand reports that Stryker's right hand man at the time, an officer named Vines, had been killed by some guy after leaving a bar. But looking over the few existing records, it seems he was killed the night before your hospitalization, and not several days after, as we had heard. Also, the killing was a lot stranger than anyone let on. Apparently he was using the bathroom at the bar, and after he hadn't come out for about ten minutes, his drinking buddy started to get concerned and went in after him. He found him slumped dead sitting in a toilet stall, with a single slender stab wound that was so surgically precise it caused almost instantaneous death. That was weird enough, but the second weird thing was there had been no struggle at all - and Vines was one of Stryker's personal enforcers. He was a big guy who _liked _to fight. No one saw anything, no one heard anything, and there was no physical evidence left at the scene."

Did he know? Logan wondered if Abrams knew what he knew - he killed him. Slender stab wound - like, say, a claw? And Logan knew he knew anatomy well enough to kill someone without any fuss at all. He didn't _want_ to know it, but he did, just like he knew where to hit someone for maximum effect, how to temporarily or permanently disable his opponent. Apparently that information was okay to retain in Stryker's book. "Do you think he was involved in the death of my family?"

"I have no idea. But if it was you that killed him, I'm gonna say yeah. And it probably scared Stryker, because if you were personally hunting down anyone that had anything to do with their deaths -"

"He was on the list."

"Undoubtedly. So you ended up hospitalized and … well, mind wiped is the term for it, I guess." He scratched his bald scalp, hard enough to leave a ghostly red line that lingered for several seconds. "If there were any records for you, I'd have brought you copies. But the Organization, once Control took the helm, made sure that no one had any kind of paper trail in the outside world. So thank god for misfiling." He reached into his coat pocket, and suddenly Marc said in his ear, "Do I drop him?"

Logan took a quick sniff, then shook his head. He wasn't going for a gun or anything that he could smell. As Abrams looked back at him, he caught the tail end of the head shake, and he glanced nervously out of the corners of his eyes as he put a folded square of paper on the table and began smoothing it out. "I should warn you before I reach into my pocket, huh?"

"Only if you don't want my friend to splatter your brains all over the asphalt."

That made him look up sharply. "Splatter? Like a gun?"

Logan gave him a terse nod. "I ain't fuckin' around with the Organization anymore. If they'd have shown up, the streets would be red with blood in under a minute. My friend doesn't like 'em either."

"Assassins?"

"Merc."

"Same difference." As soon as he smoothed out the paper as much as he was going to, he slid it across the table to him. It was a copy of a form, one that seemed to have all the stats for a man who claimed to be named Alexander Camus Logan (good god, he'd given himself Albert Camus's surname as his middle name, which must have been an ironic comment. But he couldn't figure out where the Alexander had come from), who also gave his birth date as July 14th (Bastille Day - was that a joke?), who had the same height and general coloring as him (although the eye color was listed as green, which only seemed to be true every now and again - he was convinced they'd so fucked up his own basic chemistry that they were to blame for his eye color inconstancy), although he was about a hundred pounds lighter - the bonus of not being full of metal. It also said his blood type was O negative, which he didn't know. So he was a "universal donor"? It was a shame his genes weren't.

"That's who you were when I knew you. You were always changing your name, I guess, but Logan seems to be a constant, whether it's a first name or last. If a record ever existed for your real name, I don't know it. But then again, the only reason this one even exists is because some bonehead filed it under A for Alexander instead of L for Logan."

Logan read the form, which was merely factual, and he knew full of shit. Oh, not the basics - height, weight, blood type - but the smaller details, from name and place of birth (here listed as Blairmore, Alberta - pretty well known as a virtual ghost town, and probably another one of his personal jokes) to birth date - was just fiction, him spinning a life for himself out of whole cloth. He'd given his parents the rather generic names of John and Sarah (Black) Logan, both deceased. There, listed as next of kin, was the name Genevieve Theriault Logan. It gave him a sour taste in his mouth as he wadded up the piece of paper into a tiny ball. So he was a widower twice over, was he? He really was the kiss of death, and the promise of a violent demise to anyone who got to close to him. Maybe he could find a way to live with that if the name just conjured up a face.

"I'm sorry I couldn't bring you anything more substantial."

"Doesn't matter. I just don't get why Stryker decided he had to destroy me 'cause I saved his miserable life."

That made Abrams grimace in sympathy. "No, it doesn't make sense, does it? He was being tortured for information from what I understand, and you come in and paint their brains all over the wall. You'd think he would have been grateful and kissed your ass every day for the rest of his life, but I guess you were the final straw that broke his back. He was constantly trying to live up to the reputation of his war hero father, and live down the scuttlebutt that he was just there 'cause he was daddy's little boy. Then the Russians ambush him - which wasn't his fault - and capture him, which would have been bad enough alone. But the same thing had to happen to you, and not only do most of your men survive and complete the mission, but then you come in alone to save him. If you were _trying _to make him look like an incompetent waste of space, you couldn't have done a better job. He had a fragile ego, and it just shattered. The only way he could build it up was by inflicting pain and humiliation on someone else - and you didn't know it, but you'd accidentally volunteered."

Logan started to shred the form into pieces, tearing it apart with his fingers. There was no damning information on it, but it just seemed like the thing to do anyways. "I shoulda let the Russians kill him."

Abrams's lips twisted in a painful smile, as he almost laughed, but quickly squashed it. "In hindsight, that may have been the best thing for everyone. But that wasn't the type of man you were."

After he'd turned the paper into a tiny mound of confetti, he turned a hard gaze on the old man. "How's your conscience doin'? Clear yet?"

That made him wince and sag back in the chair as if he'd punched him. "No, Logan, and it's never gonna be clear, but I wanted to try. There's nothing I can do to make up for everything that was done to you; I don't think there's anything anyone could do that would ever be enough. The sins against you are too egregious and too great."

Was he trying to sympathize with him? Show him he shared his pain? All it made Logan do was want to kick him through the window of the café, impale him on a table leg. If he wanted absolution, he wasn't going to give it to him. There had been too many years and too many crimes; to realize in hindsight you let your buddies torture and maim a mutie because it gave them their jollies and now feel bad about it was sad at best, and monstrous at worst. Deathbed conversions did not impress him - as far as he was concerned they were made by cowards afraid to face their own mortality. The genuinely contrite didn't wait until death was knocking on their door to ask forgiveness. "That's lovely. Are we fucking done here?"

A breeze kick up, one with a chilling bite, and it blew the pile of confetti off the table and onto the pavement, and early snow flurry as a cloud glided over the sun. Abrams watched it with troubled eyes, then, after a long moment, turned his gaze back towards him. "No, not yet. I must admit that something came up before I came here. I still have connections in Canadian Intelligence, friends and simply people who owe me favors, and I was hoping to get you retroactively reimbursed for your service to this country. You were a -"

"You think I give a shit about money?" he interrupted angrily. "Do you think there's enough money in the entire fucking world to make me forget about the pain of being vivisected?"

He cringed momentarily, his ashen skin looking like parchment on his slowly collapsing face. "It wasn't my intention to buy you off. They owe you, and I only wanted them to pay you your due. The fact that you went by multiple identities and your records are mostly destroyed was a big problem, but more people knew about you than you might imagine. To a good chunk of the brass, you were a well guarded but still open secret. They wanted to keep you, to help you hide your identity, because you were such a valuable asset. When everything went tits up, they could send you in, and everyone would breathe a collective sigh of relief, because they knew you'd find a way to get it done. You were a troubleshooter, persistent to the point of pathology; you just didn't give up."

"And that's why they had to make me a brain dead zombie, blah blah blah. Enough blowing sunshine up my skirt."

"I'm not doing that. I'm telling you how it was. And why it is …" he trailed off into a frustrated sigh, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing the space between his eyes like he had a sudden headache. "This wasn't my intention, I hope you know that. Ask your Professor - he's a telepath, right? I'm sure he must have read me or something."

"Whatever the hell you're leading up to, just spit it out." Although he didn't show any sign of it, Logan had just braced himself to kick the table over and send Abrams flying backwards. Here was where the set up was; here was where the lie would show itself.

It took the old man a minute to gather his forces, and possibly his courage. Finally, he opened his eyes and put his hands on the table, interlacing his bony fingers with great care, like the joints hurt. "They want you to come back, Logan. They have a mission for you."

10

Until this moment, Faith hadn't realized how good she actually had it. No matter that she had no wheels (and no hope of getting any in the near future), had a ton of laundry waiting for her at home in her shitty little loft, and hadn't gotten laid in a month - it all seemed positively golden next to what Angel had. Back in a cramped, dark office - did he live there? She forgot to ask - and teamed up with some relatively untested newbies who probably needed all the help they could get.

Not Giles of course; Giles was cool. Well, for a stiff old British guy. He didn't have too much of the Watcher superiority complex, so that was always a mark in his favor, and he could fight, so that was good. But what about these others - Naomi the electric chick, who was apparently some kind of mutant with amnesia, and Bren, the eager little demon kid who probably had more enthusiasm than ability - since when were Brachens big warrior demons? They were stronger than your average bear, but they were also peaceful and isolationists who didn't like all that fighting stuff (which she knew from having that fling with that Brachen guy a couple years ago. He could talk a lot better than he could do anything else.)

Xander was not part of the group, just a temporary tag along, and thank the gods for that. He was just a guy, and while he too had the desire, the flesh was weak, and he would always be unable to keep up should the battle turn nasty. Not his fault - it was just the way the genetic and supernatural lottery played out. At least he seemed to know that now.

This Bob guy she didn't quite get. While he and Angel were flapping their gums in Angel's office, Bren caught her up on who he was: Belial demon/fallen god, although more fallen and less god lately for reasons unexplained. Also Australian, an arms dealer with a lot of pull, and a noted eccentric, which was a really bad sign. If you could actually be weird enough to stand out in Hollywood and get yourself tagged an "eccentric", you must have been pretty fucked up. And judging from the tattoos he'd carved on his own body, he earned it.

Shame too. He was kind of cute - past the blood and graffiti. Those pants really showed off his ass, and if hers looked that good, she'd have always worn leather pants too.

Because it was scalding daylight out, Bob was leading this charge, although only leading it in the sense that he was showing them a shortcut that would get them straight into the heart of the Paradigm Studios back lot. He said he had a plan, although he only discussed it with Giles, and Giles honestly looked stunned by it, like it was so bad he couldn't believe Bob would even suggest it. Giles told them Bob wanted to "split up the heads", meaning they'd break into groups to take on the heads of this Ali Baba or whatever, as it had three. Xander got a confirmation that they didn't breathe fire (that he knew of), and said that he wanted to break up the teams thusly: her, Naomi, and Xander (!) on one side, and Giles and Bren on the other. Bob insisted he was going to take on the "central head" alone, and when Faith told him he was asking to get killed, he pointed out the weapons he had at his disposal: Angel's big ass wicked death sword, slung on his back, and the amulet of Taliesin, which was a big reddish gem set inside a silver wrist cuff that almost looked like a broken restraining device. It was "activated" by a spell in Latin, but so far it hadn't done anything but glow. Bob said it needed a "push" to really get going, but he didn't explain what he meant by that, or what it was actually supposed to do.

When they got to the end of the disused sewer tunnel that they used to cut under Paradigm, Faith already knew they were in for a rumble, as she could hear thuds and screams even from under the street. "Why am I here again?" Xander asked, gripping the two handed battle axe he'd grabbed from Giles back at the office.

"Because you didn't want to stay behind with Angel," Bob replied, climbing up and out into the sunlight and the chorus of blood curdling screams.

"Oh, right. This is bound to be much more fun."

Faith followed Bob up, and her eyes had to take a moment not only to adjust to the sunlight once more, but also to the sight in front of her.

The Azi thing did indeed have three heads, spade shaped and covered in silver- brown scales that could have been a squashed form of chain mail. It also had a snake like body, which was roughly thirty feet in length from nose (if it had one) to tip, and each of their mouths were not only bristling with teeth like stalactites, but when they yawned open, they were large enough to swallow a tourist tram - which it looked like head number three had just done. It flattened a studio warehouse with a flick of its thick tail, knocking down the corrugated walls like they were made of balsa, and all six of its glowing yellow eyes fixed on them, and it let out a hiss that sounded like the roar of an angry lion, bathing them in the rank, fetid blood smell of its breath. It wasn't the ugliest demon she had ever faced - not by far - but it was easily the biggest.

"You know, this is the worst possible time to realize I make really poor life decisions," Xander said, his eyes as wide as saucers as he gazed up at the thing.

Was it just yesterday she was thinking she was bored out of her fucking mind? Faith knew now she should have never tempted the fates with a thought like that. If she didn't wind up in a big snake demon's digestive tract inside the next five minutes, she decided she'd write that down for future reference.


	8. Chapter 8

The head on the right side darted out towards them, and Faith raced towards it, turning into a spinning kick that hit it in its lower jaw. It was like kicking a concrete wall, and it probably didn't feel it much, but it still reared back with an annoyed hiss. "This one is ours," she said, taking up a battle stance as she watched it pull its head up into the air like a snake, a forked black tongue as long as a fire hose darting out to taste the air.

"Fine," Giles said, grabbing Bren by the arm. "We're on the left."

"And I'm center square," Bob agreed, pulling out the sword and smacking the center head on the nose (?) with the flat portion of the blade. It didn't cut it, it just reared back and hissed/roared indignantly.

Giles had brought himself a sword, although it was less ornate and more functional than the one Bob had, and Bren had armed himself with a machete, which seemed a lot more economical. They started slashing and hacking at the third head, not bothering with finesse, and she was glad, because that meant she could do much the same thing. She had no weapon, mostly because they gave her funny looks when she asked about knives (okay, okay, that was fair enough - just like Angel was naturally reluctant to give her a crossbow), so she went with something very simple, very personal and very ugly: brass knuckles, although one with little spikes on them. When its head lunged at her, she punched it square in the point that may or may not have been its nose, ripping at its thick, leathery hide and drawing mustard colored blood, while Xander buried the axe blade in the side of its face. Naomi was standing off at the side, holding her hands together and gathering what looked like a ball of electricity between them; she'd already said she'd wait for them to move before she joined in.

The snake reared back once more, but only to escape the pain of the blades; it quickly darted back towards them, snapping its big and numerous teeth at her and Xander. "Now!" Naomi shouted, and both she and Xander dove clear as she hit the snake thing with a huge bolt of electricity. Faith could smell its flesh baking as it screamed and jerked its head away, its body writhing and knocking down yet another studio warehouse.

Off to the side, she noticed a scarily thin woman with big breasts standing next to a pretty boy, and they both looked vaguely familiar. Actors? Maybe - but she honestly wasn't sure. The man was looking on with a sagging jaw and the stupidest look on his face. "I thought they did all that CGI stuff on computers!"

She didn't hurt people anymore, right? Would it be an unforgivable sin if she roughed him up just a little? Angel would probably understand.

"Come on, you stupid piece of shit!" Bob was shouting at it angrily. "Stop stalling and do this thing!"

She had no idea what he was on about - taunting as a battle strategy? - but then she saw what was going to happen as if in movie slow motion. It reared back its middle head, and darted down, mouthing hinging open wide, and she couldn't even shout a warning as it came down on Bob, and swallowed him whole.

Bren let out a scream of pure shock, and although he seemed stunned for a moment, Giles yelled, "Back! Everyone get back!"

"It ate Bob!" Naomi countered in horror. She was charging up for another blast, her hands glowing like blue fire.

Faith grabbed the battle axe from Xander's hands and jumped up to her feet, burying the blade in its third head and taking out one of its eyes. It reared up so violently it almost ripped the axe from her hands.

"It's what he wanted," Giles explained.

"What?" Naomi replied in disbelief. "He _wanted it _to eat him? You've gotta be kidding me!"

"Why?" Faith asked, assuming there was a point. Well, beyond being suicidal.

That's when she noticed the snake seemed to freeze, and it started to stink. It was the baking flesh smell again, but a million times stronger and worse. Smoke started pouring out its mouths, and Xander said indignantly, "I thought you said it didn't breathe fire!"

The thing began to tremble violently, like it was freezing to death in the ninety degree heat, and finally it collapsed with an asphalt shattering thud, making her nearly lose her balance, as it looked like it was being eaten away from the inside out, its flesh starting to glow a molten orange. Finally, it all seemed to dissolve into a messy pile of burned flesh, the charred meat smell coming from it overwhelming and making her nauseous.

Kneeling on the ground, amid the burned meat, was Bob, with his arm raised above his head. The amulet was now spewing what looked like a translucent red fog, although it quickly dispersed and dimmed with exposure to the air. Bob looked up, shaking burned skin out of his hair, and said, "Goddamn, I hate going through digestive tracts."

"What just happened?" Bren asked.

Bob stood up, and tapped the wrist cuff like he was turning it off. "It burns with holy fire, and since its scales were so tough, I figured this would be the easiest way to kill it - inside out."

"How come you're not hurt?" Xander asked, clearly suspicious.

"Check it out - mystical protective wards still in effect," Bob said, pointing at the scars on his face. "I'm good 'til I heal."

Naomi dropped her hands to her side, although they were still glowing with energy. "You couldn't warn us?"

He gave her a cheesy, smart ass grin. "What, and ruin the surprise?"

Oh yeah, he was completely insane. No wonder he was a friend of Angel's.

11

Logan couldn't believe how good it felt to laugh. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd had a good laugh.

"Yeah, right," he finally told Abrams, wiping tears of amusement from his eyes. "Fuck you, fuck them, fuck everyone and the horses they rode in on. Tell 'em to send their guys - I'm not interested."

"They did - that's the problem. They've all died -"

"Those fuckers used me and threw me away," he growled, pounding his fist on the table. He did it hard enough to make the table jump, but not break. It still made Abrams stiffen, giving off a whiff of fear. "What makes them think I'd ever do another goddamn thing for them?"

Abrams dipped his head to the side. "I wondered that too. But it involves mutants. I guess they thought you'd like to contain it before it gets out to the public."

He glared at him, not sure where to start. "First of all, just 'cause I am a mutant doesn't mean I give a fuck about all of 'em. And secondly, was that some kinda threat? A blackmail attempt? Why the fuck should I care if somethin' gets out?"

"Well - can I reach into my pocket? It's just photos."

Why was he even sitting here for this? He nodded tersely, and held a hand up so Marc didn't have to ask if he should drop him or not. Abrams pulled out what were actually copies of photos, probably downloaded digital photos at that. They weren't of the best quality, and copying them made them grainier, so when he first saw them, he had no idea what he was looking at. Devastation, yes, maybe an explosion, but beyond that it was unclear. "These are photos of some suicide bombings that happened in Asrahar three weeks ago - do you know where that is?"

He nodded, vaguely insulted. "Flyspeck of a country, disputed region between Afghanistan and Pakistan, technically a DMZ for the moment."

"Right. Well, here - picture three is from a suicide bombing that happened in Kazakhstan just a week ago. All of them share the same hallmark: people were bombs."

He scoffed, not even glancing at the third picture. "Newsflash: suicide bombers are nothing special. Hell, they're about a buck a pound nowadays."

"No, you misunderstand - the people here are the _bombs_. From what little forensic evidence we've been able to get from the scenes - and believe me, there's precious little - the people's blood has been altered into a type of volatile explosive, not unlike nitroglycerin. The explosions always emanate from the chest cavity. Possibly the heart, but we have no idea since the most intact parts they ever find are the feet. These explosions usually kill people in the immediate area, and make a mess, but almost never damage buildings. The first bomber was Edward Long, a teacher of English at a business school in Punjab. The suicide bomber in Kazakhstan was an American embassy worker named Caroline Perkins."

"What?" He looked at the photos again. What he'd thought was devastation was just mess, and the general untidiness of a depressed area. There were lots of blood splatters. "Both American? Both white?"

"Correct."

Weird enough on its own, as Americans generally set bombs and left before they went off, and women as suicide bombers? That was a recent development, mainly in Israel, but still exceedingly rare. A white woman? Never. "Religious nuts?"

"No. Long had no known affiliations, and Perkins was a Christian, but not a fanatic about it. Our intelligence is limited, but from what we've been able to piece together with the help of MI-6 is that theses bombings are usually followed by an announcement from a group calling itself Black Fire. They make dubious claims about Asraharan independence, but now they're making threats all across the board, to the point where they seem perfectly unfocused, and there are some credible rumors they're actually a religious cult led by a mutant who turns people they decide are enemies or threats into living bombs somehow. Their ultimate goal is unclear, but they've promised to hit Western targets next."

Logan glanced at the photos once more, then shrugged. "So? Everyone has intelligence agents. Get 'em on it."

"This is what happened to the last man who tried to infiltrate the group." He slid another picture across the table. It showed nothing but a tremendous blood splatter and fragments of bone and skin on dusty ochre ground, with a pair of feet sticking out from a pair of common sandal. The feet ended in splintered bone just above the ankles. "This is why they want you. No one's successfully gotten in; no one's even found their home base. The locals don't talk, for a damn good reason, and we're down to time, since the threat is believed to be genuine. From what I gather, they want - need - their "impossible man" once more."

Logan shook his head, and shoved the pictures back towards him. "It's a shame he's dead, isn't it?"

"Logan, please -"

"Fuck you! You and your people have no fucking right to ask anything of me." He got to his feet, and glowered down at the shrunken little man. The fact that he was ill was the only thing keeping him from punching him.

He swallowed hard, and squinted up at him with weariness. "The Americans have turned over everything to the Organization. We don't believe they want to stop Black Fire - we believe they want to absorb the mutant into the Organization."

"They probably do; sucks for the world. Thanks for the memories. Try to use your last days more productively, 'cause I'm a lost cause." With that, he turned and stalked away, tapping his ear piece and saying, "Egress?"

"Route is clear, no movement on the perimeter," Marc reported. "How'd it go?"

He had to think about how to respond to that, and he honestly wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't sure how he felt. "It was worthless."

* * *

Although he felt funny about doing it, it was better than standing around fretting about the others and how they were doing. So Angel sat down at Bren's desk, and punched up the number Bob gave him. It rang four times before it was picked up. "Yes?" A man said. He had the hint of an odd accent.

"Um, yeah. I'm calling on behalf of Bob; he's calling his favor in."

"Bob?" He sighed heavily, put upon by him and the universe equally. "What does that maniac want now?"

Maniac? At least that meant he did indeed know him. "It seems that Ananga is back, and determined to … well, honestly, I'm not sure what his ultimate goal is. He just burned up a bunch of people in the Galleria so far. Which is bad enough, I'm not saying it isn't, but … hello?" Things had gone strangely silent at the other end of the line. "Are you still there?"

There was a strange noise, something like an inverted, muffled "pop", and suddenly there was a man standing in front of the desk, holding a cell phone. "Ananga?" He repeated, in his strange hybrid French/English accent. It was like he'd spent so much time in both places he tried to split the difference, and failed. "Isn't that motherfucker dead?"

Angel hung up the phone, and offered a shrug. "So Bob says, but it would seem not."

"Damn it! This is just what I need, you know? Some fucker hit my Jag and didn't even leave a note, now this. What a week." He reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was a tall, lean figure, roughly thirty-ish, dressed in dark linen pants, possibly a designer button down shirt in a rich burgundy color offset with silver buttons, a loose sports coat made of shiny black sharkskin, and a glance past the desk revealed he was wearing Bruno Magli shoes. A rather well off sorcerer, wasn't he? He had shoulder length brown hair, and black eyes that seemed to have flecks of mica deep within them, lights within the dark, as well as an unusual face that was more striking than handsome, although it was possible to be mistaken for good looking. He kind of looked like that guy from La Femme Nikita, and he smelled … odd. A faint hint of Human, nearly overwhelmed with a scent like energy.

"Who are you? Bob didn't say."

He put a Galois between his lips, and snapped his fingers, making a tiny blue flame arc from his thumb. "I'm Meldane," he said, lighting his cigarette. He blew out his thumb, and asked, "And you are?"

Meldane? He didn't think he knew the name, but there was almost something familiar about it. "I'm Angel."

Something in his eyes lit up, but not necessarily in a good way. "Angel? As in Angelus, the scourge of Europe?"

He stood up, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. "I have a soul now; I'm not the same person."

"And goody for you." He blew a small cloud of exceedingly stinky smoke, leering at him in a predatory way. "Otherwise you'd be quite dead. How is that soul thing working out for you? Do you feel more warm and fuzzy towards your fellow bipeds?"

He glared at him, aware that he was trying to goad him for some reason, but unclear why. Maybe he was just an asshole. Or maybe he had a grudge against Angelus; maybe that's why he seemed vaguely familiar. Oh shit, had Bob just put him in a revenge scenario? "Do you want to fight?"

"You wouldn't even last a minute." He looked around the office in an exaggerated manner, and finally said, almost cheerfully, "How delightfully squalid. We're in America, yes?"

"Los Angeles. Would you not smoke that in here, please?"

He looked at him archly, smiling thinly, blowing out more smoke in an almost gleeful manner now. Yeah, this guy was just a putz. "You don't breathe, so you can't possibly be concerned about second hand smoke."

"No, but Galois stinks worse than a regular cigarette, so do me a favor and put it out. Before I do."

He snickered, eyes glittering with challenge. "Ooh. Going to go all vampy on me? Should I be scared?"

He bent down and opened the bottom drawer of the desk, where Bren kept some emergency weapons. There were knives, holy water, stakes, and a gun that had silver bullets in it. "Maybe I'll just shoot you."

He raised an eyebrow at that, but before he could make some snaky comment, the door opened, and Faith came in, saying, "I think people in L.A. are stupider than I originally thought." She stopped short as she saw Meldane, and Xander, who was right behind her, almost ran into her back. "Hey, ain't you that actor guy?"

Meldane rolled his eyes, exasperated, as if he got that all the time and was sick of hearing it. "No, I'm not "that actor guy". He stole my look."

Giles looked slightly startled. "Mordred? What are you doing here?"

"Mordred?" Angel repeated in disbelief. "As in almost destroyed the world Mordred?"

He looked irritated, his features pinching dramatically. "Are you one to talk, Angelus?"

"Umm, why does that name sound kinda familiar?" Xander asked, as everyone filed into the office.

Bob, who looked surprisingly tired, said, "Because he's famous in Arthurian legends as the incestuous, treacherous son of King Arthur, who inevitably leads to his death. But like most myths, it's not precisely true."

"It's that incest thing I hate the most," Meldane/Mordred grumbled sourly, taking a violent puff off his cigarette. "I mean, my god, how would _you _like to be famous as a product of boinking between a man and his half-sister? If it was true, it would probably hurt less."

Xander gave him a funny look. "King Arthur was real?"

"Not as Arthur - that's a very pedestrian version of his name - but he was. And he wasn't my father either."

Faith, who had been clearly sizing him up, asked, "Who was then?"

"Merlin," Bob volunteered. "Mordred's a child of magic. If you excuse me, I'll be back in a minute." And with that, Bob went into the back, into the warren of hallways and rooms that made up the maze of the office.

"His name was Myrddin, actually," Mordred said crossly. "What is it that people have against the Welsh? I don't get it at all."

"A child of magic?" Bren wondered. "What does that mean?"

"It means he's an elemental," Giles said, only slightly surprised. But to Angel, the idea was shocking - it meant he was half Human, and half supernatural energy, which was virtually impossible. Magic would run like blood through his veins, and he would probably be extremely hard to kill, as to kill him you'd need to kill magic itself, which wasn't completely possible in this universe.

"You means he's more of a thing than a he?" Xander asked, throwing himself on the sofa.

That earned him an evil scowl. For just that moment, Xander was his hero. "I am _not_ an it. But I can make you one."

"Ladies, save it for Jell-O wrestling night," Faith interrupted impatiently. "We're not done, are we? What's our next move here?"

That was a good question, and one that actually deserved to be the focus of their attention. He exchanged a questioning look with Giles while Mordred puffed his cigarette nervously, and suggested, "Killing Ananga before he kills us all, I imagine."

"First we have to find him," Bren pointed out. "How do we do that?"

"I'm going to go check on Bob," Naomi said, sneaking into the back corridors. She still had that crush on him, didn't she? Bob could be doing more to discourage her; he should have been. But he probably liked the ego rush of all the adulation and adoration he received (which was another point in favor of the him being Kama theory).

"Bob said he had some of his Powers energy signature, that we could find him that way," Angel said, looking more at Giles than Mordred. Sure, he himself had tried to destroy the world as Angelus, but he could honestly claim he was a different person, because Angelus hadn't been a person at all. Mordred couldn't claim that. How had he changed? Updated his wardrobe?

But it was Mordred who nodded. "That's a place to start. But who brought him back in the first place? Shouldn't we be concerned about that?"

"One thing at a time," Giles told him. "We'll find Ananga first, then we'll worry about the Senior Partners."

Mordred's eyes briefly widened, before he tried to adopt that world weary European coolness once more. It fit on him like a baggy suit. "The Senior Partners? Those buggers never give up, do they?"

And Angel knew that that, in a nutshell, was going to be one of their major problems.

* * *

It was hard to get the smell of burned dragon out of your hair. In fact, it was damned near impossible.

He tried anyways, using the natural glycerin liquid soap - pear scented - Angel had in his bathroom. Since it was unlikely he'd picked that for himself, he was sure Naomi or Bren was behind it. They seemed more like pear soap people.

Bob rinsed his hair in the gleaming porcelain sink, and watched the soap bubbles swirl down the drain with tiny bits of burned flesh. He knew what he was going to have to do to get rid of Ananga this time, but he hated the idea of it. How many people that he loved would he hurt? Too many. Yes, it would be only temporary, but still, this kind of thing stung, even if you knew it was only momentary. It would probably "redeem" him in the eyes of the Powers That Be, but that was a vote against it as far as he was concerned.

Maybe that's why they hadn't contacted him about "taking care of this". They knew he would, and they knew how. Shit.

He looked up, and saw his time was running out. His protective wards were coming off in flakes of dried blood, little blue bits that joined the burned flesh going down the drain. He grabbed a blue towel off the near by towel rack (this place had a shower - which was pretty cool, although it was probably just for washing off demon blood), and scrubbed his hair, aware that it would probably be dry the second he stepped outside. It was a hot, muggy L.A. day, the kind that made you feel like you were being charbroiled on the asphalt, and basted in toxic mist.

There was a knock on the bathroom door, and he continued rubbing his hair dry, even though it was pointless. "Come in, but only if you brought booze."

The door opened with some hesitancy, and a soft voice replied, "You're the bar owner. Supply your own booze."

He looked up into the mirror, pulling the towel off his head. It was Naomi he saw in the reflection. "Oh, hey you."

"Hey yourself." She shut the door and leaned against it, as if trying to keep her distance.

"They fighting?"

"Not yet. But it seems Mordred isn't Mr. Popular."

"No, he never is. He's a professional asshole. He's a child of magic, and it gives him a superiority complex." He turned to face her, leaning back against the sink. "Can I help you with something?"

She stared back at him, blue eyes scrutinizing, and after a moment she took a step forward. "Yes, actually, you can. You can … turn off my powers for a little while, can't you?"

That made him quirk an eyebrow at her. He was pretty sure he knew where this was going. "Yeah. Why?"

That made her grimace in sad humor. "Why? Because it's getting worse. It used to be I couldn't touch anyone or anything with giving them or it a mild electric shock. Now the shock's a bit less mild."

"You're channeling a lot of extra power. That could be it."

"Yeah, probably." She stripped off her gloves, and put them down on the toilet tank. "Have you turned them off yet?"

"Uh, no powers. Yes, they're off."

"Good." She reached out and touched his arm, tracing the quickly fading symbols carved into his skin. "Because I've been waiting to do this." She pulled him towards her and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

It was pleasant, her lips were soft, but while he enjoyed it, part of him was urging caution, and he gently pushed her back. "Naomi - I'm not sure we should do this."

"Helga said it was okay. Actually, her words were "go for it"."

"Yeah, that sounds like Hel." It did - monogamy was just too Human for her. "But it's not that."

Her eyes bored into his, curiosity with just a hint of annoyance. "What is it then? Am I not … attractive enough?"

"No! Gods no, you're gorgeous; I'd bonk you in a hot second. But … Logan's my friend."

She sighed wearily, and let her chin sag down to her chest. "I don't remember him; I barely know him. So why does he keep getting in the way of my life?"

It was unfair, wasn't it? He pulled her tightly to him, and she leaned her head on his shoulder as he stroked her hair. "He loved you."

"But isn't that the key term? Loved - past tense. Surely he's moved on. Why can't I?"

He sighed heavily. She was right, of course, and he had no idea what to tell her. He'd encouraged Logan to talk to Naomi, but he wouldn't. He was content to leave her be, for fear he'd somehow endanger her again, and also for the fact that he was afraid of suffering the pain of losing once more. That was the only pain that really got to Logan for any length of time.

Some selfish part of him reminded him of what he was about to do to put an end to all of this. It would be unfair to her if anything happened between them … but she was an adult. And she was probably desperately lonely - she could never touch people, not without hurting them. But he didn't want to be a total asshole cad slut, which everyone thought he was (albeit for good reasons). "Naomi ..?"

She raised her head and looked him straight in the eyes. She was lovely. "What?"

"You know my reputation, don't you? You know I can't promise anything, and getting involved with a god - especially a fallen one that pisses other gods off - is bad bad bad, right?"

She nodded. "I know - I'm not a fool. I also know there's a good chance we could all die. So what are we waiting for?"

"If you survive, would you regret it?"

"No."

"Okay." He slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her into a deep, passionate kiss, letting the towel fall to the floor.

Yes, he would feel terrible about this eventually, but he was only Human. Ish.

* * *

Angel didn't want to to do it, but he had to. He grabbed Mordred and pulled him back, away from Giles, as the two were starting to get into a heated argument about the best way to isolate Ananga's power signature, and it looked like someone would do something they might regret. When the two arguers were major magic slingers, that could get out of control fast.

"Okay, we need to stop and think about this," he said, as Mordred angrily ripped his arm out of his grasp.

"I am thinking," Giles said bitterly, glaring at Mordred. "Unlike some other people."

Mordred returned it arrogantly. "I am thinking. And since I'm the more powerful magician, don't you think you should just suck it up and follow my lead, Giles?"

"Most powerful magician?" A female voice said curiously. "Can we get a revote on that?"

It was Xander who reacted first, getting to his feet so fast you could almost believe he wasn't starved for sleep. "Will? You made it!"

He embraced her in a friendly bear hug, and Willow hugged him back, a genuine smile lighting up her face. "Of course I did. You call, I zap myself here lickety split. Er, more or less."

Suddenly, the odds in their favor looked just a bit better.


	9. Chapter 9

12

Magic talk always made Xander's eyes glaze over. Oh, at first it was kind of interesting, but after a while it became not unlike "Oh holy jockstrap, protect us in thy cups", and he couldn't care less. So he closed his eyes and tried to catch a few Z's while Giles, Willow, and that snarky Mordred were sitting on the floor, hands joined together over a small sprawl of tiny animal bones, fragments of crystal, and a sprinkling of herbs that reminded him vaguely of Thanksgiving dinner at his Great Aunt Vicki's house. (All that was missing was the bitter recriminations, the drunken arguments that end in thrown yams and hurt feelings, and the faint but undeniable smell of Alka Seltzer and Wild Turkey.) Supposedly they formed a triangle, but it was hard to tell.

Angel was trying not to pace - he'd start, then stop himself, and stand around awkwardly, like he was waiting for a bus that was twenty minutes late. Bren was tapping away on his computer, trying to find out where Wolfram and Hart had set up a new Southern California branch. Mordred had given them some of the aliases they worked under in Europe, and Bren was trying to see if he could tie the name into any recent real estate purchases. So this was Angel's new life, huh? Pretty damn dull. He didn't feel so bad for having almost no life outside his job. If the choice was that and this - killing demons, dealing with whacked out gods, getting to the root of evil by catching them in real estate transactions - then bring on his messy apartment and the California Pizza Kitchen.

Faith was just as bored as he was, and when Angel commented about Bob not being here for this, she jumped to her feet and said she'd go find him. He knew she was just eager to go so she could escape the magic mumbo jumbo, but he couldn't help but wonder if she thought that bozo was attractive. Everybody acted like he was, but he wasn't _that_ good looking. Yeah, he had the flash clothes (when he wasn't bleeding all over them), but it must have been the accent - chicks digged accents, right? It was so unfair.

When Faith came back, she was alone, and smiling in such a twisted a way it looked like she was trying not to laugh. "Um, he's gonna be a minute."

She threw herself on the end of the couch lightly, and Angel was giving her a hard look. "Did he say why?"

Again that lopsided smile. "No, but he didn't hafta."

Angel's scrutinizing gaze was pulled away by the fact that Will, Giles, and Mordred started to glow, the center of their "triangle" starting to fill with a milky, translucent energy. It was impressive and bright, but other than that, it didn't seem to mean much.

He looked over at Faith, and asked quietly, "So what's he doin'? He afraid to come out?"

She snickered slightly, watching the light show. "Naw, he and Naomi are just burning off some steam."

It was only when he remembered what Faith's idea of "burning off steam" was that it hit him. He stared at her in wide eyed horror. "You mean … she and him are … how could she!"

Faith continued to grin drunkenly, amused by him. "What? Do I have to draw you a diagram? Oh, wait, I get it - you wanted to tap that, huh? Got a taste for older women?"

"No! It's just that … well, at least I know she's not a demon. That makes for a change." How could Naomi fall for that guy's transparent bullshit? The look Faith was giving him was annoying him, so he shot back, "Didn't you want to nail Bob?"

She shrugged casually, as if she'd hardly thought about it. (Liar!) "I wouldn't say no. Still wouldn't. He sounds fun."

Xander had to repress a shudder. Good lord, he so didn't want to know any of this. He wanted to boil his head to erase the mental pictures his brain was kicking up. As if to spare him further anguish, his stomach growled rather loudly, and he realized not only hadn't he gotten any sleep, but he didn't get dinner last night, and now he was starving.

Faith heard it, and said, "Aren't you supposed to say "excuse you"?"

"Why? You just said it for me."

"Lazy. Actually, I'm kinda hungry too. Did you see that Chinese place at the end of the block?"

He did. It was one of those cheap teriyaki joints that seemed to spread like herpes in a nudist colony, that didn't offer the best food, and in fact was probably a great place to get a nasty case of food poisoning. But he was so hungry, it still sounded appealing. "Wanna go?"

"Sure. Beats hangin' around here, listening to chanting." She got up, and he slowly unfolded himself from the couch, quietly amazed at how much his life had and hadn't changed over the years. He'd tried to leave the supernatural stuff behind him, and yet here he was, with a reformed, unstable Slayer, Will at her witchy best (either she had dyed her hair red, or it grew back in that color; either way, he was glad, as he never quite got used to her with white hair), Giles at his world weariest, and Angel still doing his broody thing. Maybe it was some form of Stockholm Syndrome, but his life without the drama, the chaos, the fear, seemed strangely colorless, and he could never quite believe it was real; he kept waiting for it all to collapse around him, for his real life to come stomping though the door and drag him off by the hair. Not that he was looking forward to it, but the waiting seemed intolerable.

Angel looked at them curiously. "Where are you going?"

"Gonna go get some chow from the Chinese place," Faith replied. "Want anything?"

If a look could be said to be sardonic, that's exactly what he gave her. "No." He looked between them, brow furrowing, and suddenly Xander had a bit of a flashback. To the time Faith almost killed him, and how Angel - of all possible people - saved his life. And yet, he still treated him like the bloodsucking fiend he was, while Angel never pointed out "I saved your life, you sorry sack of shit". What did that mean? That Angel was more forgiving than he was? Now there was a frightening thought - a vampire being more compassionate than him. But he had forgiven Faith when all of them were convinced the bitch needed to be locked in a vault and the key thrown away. Maybe the person who wanted forgiveness most recognized when someone else needed it, even if they weren't sure.

God, listen to his thoughts, He was going to pass out in a minute. He really needed to cram some food down his throat before he started singing "Age of Aquarius".

"Okay, Back in a minute," Faith replied, and lead the way towards the door. To him, almost as an aside, she added, "We should really pick up some extra for Bob and Naomi. They'll be starving - I know I am after sex."

He scowled at her, which just made her grin broadly. "Stop that!"

"You're such a prude," she teased.

"I am not. I just don't want to think about Bob … naked."

That was the wrong thing to say, judging from the look on her face. It was going to be one of those days, wasn't it? What the hell was he thinking? He had one of those lives.

* * *

They sat in a dark bar, full of professional drinkers and the habitually unemployed, and had a couple of beers while Marc tried to pry secrets out of him. He wanted to know what Abrams had told him, and Logan wasn't sure he even had the energy to speak. He felt drained, as if Abrams had somehow sucked the life right out of him.

He told him what he'd said about Stryker, and Marc shook his head in disgust. "See, now that's a crazy fucker. We sure he's dead?"

"Positive."

"Can we dig him up, just so I can put a couple of rounds in his head?"

He smirked, glancing up at the t.v. screen behind the bar. For some reason it was showing lacrosse - which he honestly didn't think of as a sport, just a waste of time - probably because it was too early to show any other sport. It was a funny thing, he usually didn't watch sports at all, he had no patience for it, but when he was in Canada he occasionally craved a good hockey game. Stereotype or a form of cultural brainwashing? Maybe it meant he spent too much time watching t.v. in bars.

Marc took a pull off his beer before asking, "What else did he say? You seem pretty glum."

"I'm always glum."

"No, you're always crabby."

He glared at him. "There's a difference?"

"It's a fine line, but yes. So come on, what else did he say?"

He shook his head, took a swig of his beer, and glanced up at lacrosse. Ah, the sport of college students needing a credit. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Man, you are such a woman sometimes."

"This from the guy with the sequined thongs."

"Hey, I don't go for no sequins - it's feathers all the way, baby."

For some reason, that made him laugh. Maybe it was the mental image of Marc in feathered underwear. Marc elbowed him good naturedly, cracking a smile. "See? I knew I can make the spymaster laugh."

"Spymaster? What the fuck?"

"Oh, come on - you know that makes all kinds of sense. First of all, not just anyone can drop out of society for what, fifteen years or so? That takes talent, especially in this day and age. You have to work hard not to be noticed, not to leave a traceable trail, but you did it a lot longer than I ever could have managed. Then there's that whole disguising thing - you're good at it for a guy of your hairstyle. You even change your posture, which is a detail many people forget, and you know to hit the thrift stores. You lie really convincingly - another talent - and you got the lingo down. Sitrep? Egress? Where the hell'd you pick that up? Somehow I don't think they talk that way at Xavier's."

He put his beer bottle down on the bar, slightly troubled by the drift of this conversation. He wasn't kidding, he wasn't joking, and that made it all worse somehow. But why did it bother him? He already knew some bits and pieces about his past, he knew what he did for the Organization, but he never quite thought of himself as a spy. An assassin, yes, but those were two different things, no matter what Hollywood implied.

"I'm freakin' you out," Marc concluded.

"No. I'm just ... not used to the idea."

"What? Weren't you behind enemy lines in World War Two? Fucking hell, man, if that doesn't make you a spy, what does?"

"I think I was more of a saboteur there," he offered, but he honestly wasn't sure. It wasn't like he could remember it.

And just the thought of what he couldn't remember brought the name back - Genevieve. Genie. Christ, how many people had he buried in his life? How many were dead because of him? "I was wondering if you could find somethin' for me. Use those detective skills of yours."

Mark quirked an eyebrow at him. Well, they were detective skills, no matter what he called them. "Sure, what do you need? Want me to dig up some dirt on Abrams?"

"No ... although if you have some spare time, go nuts. I was hoping you could find something that probably isn't available on a computer record." And he told him what he needed to find.

Marc was such a good friend that he tried manfully not to look surprised.

13

Angel was on the verge of looking for Bob when he finally came out, clean of all his mystical wards and dried blood. His hair was damp from washing - a good thing too, since he really reeked of burned dragon - but he actually looked a bit sweaty. Being a Belial - and a weird one at that - he didn't smell bad, or hardly at all (a push?), but it was curious since he knew the air conditioner was working. He might not be able to feel much of a difference (being technically dead, ambient temperature rarely mattered to him), but the AC rattled like a jet engine about to fall off its wing. When it was or wasn't working, he knew.

Before Angel could ask if he was all right, Bob looked at what Willow, Mordred, and Giles were doing, and said, "Ooh, this is good."

In between the three of them, a small three dimensional model of the city was forming, a map carved from smoke. The chanting continued, and the amount of power was making the hair rise on the back of his neck. They could technically find anything with a location spell this powerful, up to and including a needle in a gutter down on Sunset.

Bob went and sat on the arm of the couch, watching intently. Angel considered asking, but the moment had passed, and the tension in the room seemed reverent somehow, respectful. Wes was standing just beyond Giles, watching the spell intently, as if he was going to coach them if they forgot their lines.

Naomi came out into the room, and asked him quietly, "How's it going?"

"Pretty good," he replied, and suddenly realized her hair looked damp, and she seemed a little flushed. Before he could ask her if she was all right, the office door opened, and Xander and Faith came in, both carrying big plastic bags of Chinese food. Bob looked at them with happy surprise. "Ooh, food. How'd you know?"

"Wild guess," Faith said, with a knowing smirk. Now what was that about?

So the three of them started spreading the cartons of food out on the coffee table, and Naomi went over and joined them as they started passing out plastic forks, but Angel didn't pay much attention to them, as the spell was complete, and bits of sparkling light materialized from thin air and fell upon the smoke city within the triangle as if it were rain.

After a moment, a small dot of blue light began to glow. Wesley clapped his hands together as if he was done with a job. "Here we go."

Angel took a few steps closer, to get a better look at the city "map". "Okay, it seems like he's beneath the Del'Oro Building. They don't have any ties to Wolfram and Hart, do they?"

"Checking," Bren said crisply, then added, "Can I have an egg roll?"

As Xander tossed him an egg roll wrapped in a napkin, Willow said hesitantly, "Umm, I think we did something wrong." No one knew what she meant until they all saw the second glowing spot of blue light, this one farther away and near the ocean. (In the ocean?)

"Did you neglect to mention he had a twin?" Mordred commented archly.

Bob hastily swallowed a mouthful of Mongolian Beef, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No, he can bilocate. Briefly, he can't do it forever, but he can do it for a bit."

"Bilocate?" Xander asked, a forkful of fried rice paused half way between the carton and his mouth.

"Be in two places at once," Giles told him, studying the ghost city with a worried frown. "How much power does he retain when he's bilocating?"

"That's just it - he's down to half. Half in one place, and half in another. What we want to do is make him bilocate, as it will make him easier to kill."

"Oh," Bren said, in a way that suggested a dead body just fell out of his closet. "Uh, the Del'Oro building is owned by Waltar F. Mohr." Not original; it was an anagram for "Wolfram Hart". "But, um, Mohr also owns Paradigm Studios. Does that mean something?"

Mordred sighed wearily. "Besides trouble? No, boy, not much."

But Bob got a strange look on his face. At first, Angel thought maybe he'd bitten into something strange in his General Tso's, but the look in his eye turned hard and glittery; he was thinking of something - or someone - he wanted to be rid of. "We need to hit him two ways. He'll be expecting a mystical attack - it's all we can do, right? - but we need to hit him with a physical one as well. It will confuse and irritate him, and since he's an arrogant bastard like his mother, he'll assume he can bilocate and take us out twice as fast."

"We can't attack him physically," Angel pointed out, wondering what Bob _had _been doing in the back offices. Drinking? "He's a god. he'll wipe out the first person who gets near him."

"Not if we have enough protective wards in place."

Mordred snorted derisively. "I'm not sure there's enough in this world."

"The ritual of Chien Tong," Bob countered.

Angel had never heard of that. But judging from the looks of shock and horror on Giles and Willow's faces - Mordred just looked grimly amused - it wasn't good. "You're insane," Giles finally said.

But Wesley paced back to where Angel was, and seemed to ponder that. "Bob must feel very guilty about what he unleashed upon the world."

"Why?" Only when it was out of his mouth did Angel realize he'd said it aloud. But it was okay, because Giles thought he was asking him.

"Why? Because … because the amount of magic channeled is insane. It's guaranteed fatal."

"Not to me," Mordred said, and pulled a Galois out of nowhere. He didn't light it yet, but chomped on it like a person might chew on a toothpick. "I am magic; it cannot harm me. Much."

Giles shook his head. "You're half-Human; you're partially vulnerable."

"Not if he proxies it," Bob said, and pointed a chopstick back at himself. "Me. I'm in a Belial shell, but I am a Power, and fragments linger in my blood. Mordred and I can connect, and share the power load. We can throw protections on the fighters, and when the time comes, we can take Ananga out."

Faith waved a hand in the air. "Hey, is there an English version of this?"

Willow shifted uncomfortably on the floor, as if her legs were starting to fall sleep. "It's a spell that basically channels all the free floating magical energy of this plane into a vessel. The problem is, it's hard for the vessel to control it, and usually it ends with the vessel being … burnt away, from the inside out. It's not pretty."

"But Mordred and I can link; we can share the burden. It shouldn't kill either of us."

"He's guessing," Wesley said. "He wants it to work. He really doesn't know if it will."

Angel had figured that part out for himself. But he also knew Bob wasn't suicidal, and he wouldn't have volunteered to do it if he didn't think he could handle it. Yet Bob could push his own limits to the breaking point - he knew that from past experience.

"Maybe we need a bit more help," Mordred said, although he wasn't prepared to back out. Hell, if Bob didn't first, there was no way he was going to. "Anybody know where we can get some carnite?"

"What, a dietary supplement?" Bren said, noisily crunchy on his egg roll.

Mordred gave him an evil scowl. "No. It's a rare ore that's a real pain in the ass to the type of demons Indrani is queen of."

"Indrani? The Hindu goddess?" Giles seemed only mild surprised by the mention of her name.

Mordred nodded. "Also a demon goddess and Ananga's mum, right Bob?"

Bob glared at him, and briefly held his chopstick like it was a stake he was about to pound through his chest. "Yes. But Indrani got rid of all the carnite as soon as she found out about it. It doesn't exist anymore."

Faith shrugged, chewing idly on a potsticker. "So? We stab him, it'll still hurt, right?"

Bob shook his head. "His body's merely a shell; he's really an energy being. So we can irritate him, but that's about … " he trailed off suddenly, and shot a sharp look at Mordred, still sitting on the floor and chewing on his Galois. "There's a rare metal related to carnite, isn't there?"

Mordred had to think about it a moment, but when he finally guessed at it, Wesley raised his eyebrows at that. "Oh dear. This is going to get interesting."

Wasn't it just?

* * *

He didn't know how he did it, but by consulting his laptop and making two phone calls, Marc found it. Although he hadn't told him much about it, he seemed to understand his need to do this alone. Sometimes he thought Marc was a better friend than he deserved.

Logan wandered the grounds, which were almost impossibly wide and well tended, with stones sticking up evenly along the rolling green lawns. He already knew from talking to the groundskeeper that what he was looking for was way in the back, in the "old part".

He crunched through fallen leaves, passed beneath gnarled old oaks, walked besides mausoleums that looked carved from alabaster. He knew he'd reached the oldest section when he saw stones crumbled like rotten teeth, vines twining over the statue of a broken angel, its right wing reduced to a jagged stump, and clutches of scraggily trees attempting to grow where they weren't wanted. He missed what he was looking for the first time, but for some reason he looked towards a sad maple, and saw the stones.

He knelt down in front of one of them, clearing off years of dirt and mold, and finally uncovered the words lost underneath, eroded now to faint outlines: Genevieve Simone Theriault Logan. Beneath her names, along with birth and death dates, was the legend "Beloved Wife and Daughter". He felt a twinge in his stomach, but little else. He'd been expecting this.

Moving slowly, as if under water, he cleared away the detritus from the second headstone, the one on Genevieve's right side, only to find the name Alexander Camus Logan on it. There was no legend of explanation, and he knew the birth date - as well as the "death" date, was wrong. How twisted was the Organization? They got him a tombstone, but buried nothing but an empty coffin, all to keep up the idea that this man - whoever he was - was dead.

The third, the one on her left … god, he knew what that one was, didn't he? Still, he forced himself to do it, stomach burning as he cleared away the mud, and finally he saw it: Matthew Christophe Logan. Their son. Reading the dates, he saw he was seven years old when he died. Where had those seven years gone? Where had all these years gone?

"I'm sorry I don't remember you," he said quietly to both Matt's and Genie's tombstones. Rain started misting down, and a cold wind sighed through the trees. "I wish I could. I never meant to forget you. They made me."

But even as he said it, the words felt like ashes in his mouth. He should have fought them harder; he should have held on to the memories of his wife and son. If he held on to Mariko, why couldn't he hold on to them? The sorrow and pain he felt was almost intolerable; it seemed to twist his stomach into Gordian knots, and his hands curled into fists unbidden.

Marc was right. They should dig up Stryker and beat the living shit out of his corpse. He couldn't die enough for this crime, for all these crimes.

It was then he was startled by a sudden trilling noise, and only after he turned and jumped to his feet, ready (and very much willing) to fight, he realized it was Bob's cell phone, which he'd stuck in his pocket before he left the cabin. Annoyed, he grabbed it out of his jacket pocket, and considered throwing it against the nearest tree, but instead he flicked it open and snapped, "This better be fucking good."

There was a very wary pause before a man's voice said, "Umm, well, it depends on your definition of good."

"Angel?" he replied, surprised enough that his anger died down. Well, for now.

Maybe the best part of all of this was Angel wouldn't call him unless he needed help kicking something's ass. And he very much needed to hurt something right now.

Very, very much.


	10. Chapter 10

14

Bob had a plan. An insane, unworkable plan. And yet, it was the only one they had, and no one had come up with anything better.

He laid out the basics for them while waiting for everyone else to join them. They needed an eclipse, which Giles and Willow were sure they could evoke, and Bob wanted to split them into two teams: mystical and physical. But there was a catch, of course, as there always was with Bob. He couldn't tell them what the catch was, though, for fear that Ananga would "see it" in one of their minds. "Now what kind of bullshit thing is that?" Mordred complained, but it did no good. (Did it ever?)

Most of the group finished off the Chinese food, and drank sodas or coffee, complaining there was no beer until Angel pointed out this wasn't a bar. Bob seemed pretty confident that he knew where Ananga would go, and how they could head him off. What Angel didn't get was why he was so sure where he'd be, so Bob told him: "Because he wants to kill lots of people, and he wants to make sure we see it in glorious living color. If you want to rule in fear, it's no good if you just try and tell people you're scary."

Even Wes could just shrug. "He has a point."

Then Giles and Willow worked on casting the eclipse spell, while Bob told him he needed to see him in his office. He didn't say why, so Angel was instantly suspicious, even more so when Mordred followed them in. Wes, who had somehow beat him inside the office, said, "They're going to do the ritual of Chien Tong."

Which is what he was afraid of. As soon as the door closed, Angel asked, "Okay, what is this? Is this going to blow up my office? 'Cause I just got it …"

"Don't worry, there should be no detonations," Bob assured him, taking on his calm salesman voice - that was instantly suspicious. "But we are gonna need something from you, mate."

Here it came. "What?"

Bob measured out a small distance between his thumb and forefinger. "We just need a wee bit of your blood."

Mordred sat on the arm of the loveseat, rolling his strange black eyes. "Little more than a "wee bit", Bob."

"What? Why?"

As Bob told him, Wes also said pretty much the same thing he said. "Because a vital part of the ritual is the blood of a supernatural being. You're a vamp, so you qualify."

"Also, do you have a foil? An epee? You know, one of those tiny, flimsy swords?"

Bob smirked at him. "Afraid of a little pain, Mordy?"

He gave him a deep, ugly scowl. "No. And don't call me that."

"Wait, wait," Angel said, holding up his hands. "Before I agree to anything - or allow you to do it in my office - I need to know exactly what the hell you plan to do."

So, with a weary sigh, Bob told him, and while it followed the rules of many a typical ritual - blood, violence, Chinese in place of Latin - it still didn't sound like something he wanted in his office. But clearly he didn't have much choice, and besides, no regular Human could be exposed to this or participate in this without getting hurt. But just for the record, he asked, "Do I have any choice in the matter?"

Mordred shook his head. "Nope."

"Not a sausage," Bob agreed.

He wished he was surprised, but somehow he wasn't.

Wesley stood by, watching with curiosity, as Angel dug out a short sword (no, he had no epees - he didn't fence), and Bob went off and found a bowl somewhere, perhaps the "break" room. Mordred had conjured up the rest of the ingredients they needed, and they waited while Angel sliced open his wrist with the blade of the short sword, and did his best to squeeze out a good amount of his blood into the bowl. Because he had no circulation, the squeezing was necessary, and he felt a bit like an orange.

He couldn't feel lightheaded, but he'd emptied about a pint of his blood into the stainless steel bowl before Bob judged it enough, and then they each cut their hands and let a few drops of their blood hit the bowl. A few! He felt cheated.

Bob said a few words and stirred the mixture together, while Mordred sprinkled in some rare earth, and what smelled like dusted vampire. At least he had learned that Mordred had black blood, like ink, and it smelled not unlike licorice, which was far beyond weird. All mixed together, the blood took on a thick, blackish-purple cast, and Bob sketched out a wide circle of it on the carpet, adding lines that made it look more like an inverted starburst than a pentagram. They then put streaks of the blood on their faces, vertical lines on their foreheads and chins, horizontal lines on their cheeks, supposedly representing the four cardinal points of the earth. They then stood inside the circle facing each other, the bowl of blood at their feet, and they began reciting the words of the spell, mostly Chinese, but having to call on Okuni-Nushi, a Japanese god, meant it was actually a mélange of languages.

Even though the window was closed, wind started to mysteriously kick up, circling the two of them, as the blood on the floor began to glow, first a neon blue, slowly transitioning to a bruise purple and a livid red, the blood in the bowl boiling. This went on for a minute before sparkles of light appeared in the wind tunnel surrounding them, contained within the boundaries of the circle of blood, and came down on them like a shower of sparks. Their skin seemed coated with the faintest sprinkling of gold dust, and he knew the time was near. Angel picked up the short sword and readied himself, standing just outside the circle, facing Bob's back. As soon as the bowl of blood began to glow, he rammed the sword through Bob's right side, and straight into Mordred. Supposedly, charged with magic as they were, this wouldn't kill them - hurt them, yes, but it would also bind them physically and by magic, which was the point.

There was some magical feedback along the sword that sent him flying back into his desk, like he'd just gotten a massive electric shock, and his hands tingled while the wind and the curtain of light surrounding the two of them began working itself into a frenzy, like they were the eye of a strangely site specific hurricane. He gave it a minute or two, feeling the magic crawling up his skin like a thousand flesh eating insects, then lunged for the sword, grabbing it and ripping it out before the feedback could shock him away.

Still, he caught feedback, and went flying, this time hitting his desk and going over it, nearly getting caught by his chair before hitting the floor and cutting himself on the sword. "That was graceful," Angel muttered bitterly to himself, shoving himself up from the carpet.

"At least it wasn't wood," Wes pointed out.

A small blessing. As he stood up, using the desk as a type of cover, as the light and wind reached a crescendo, and a small shockwave seemed to burst from them and radiate outward as it faded into darkness. He braced for impact, but the wave seemed to pass harmlessly through him. Mordred staggered away from the circle, grabbing his side. "Fuck!" The wound was healed already, but it probably did hurt. Mordred's eyes were all black - not just the pupil and iris, everything.

"You can be such a pussy sometimes," Bob chided. "I've been nailed to a wall." Bob's eyes were still an unnatural cobalt, but seem to be fluctuating between neon blue and deep black, a vertical ebony pupil like in a snake's eye. He looked at him, and asked, "Do I look as weird as I feel?"

Angel nodded, keeping a hold of the sword. Well, when it came to magic this powerful, you could never be too sure.

* * *

She wanted to punch him, she honestly did, and that made her feel bad. Then she felt even angrier because he was making her feel bad. Why on Earth had she ever slept with him? Oh, right, it was during her nutball Sunnydale days.

Faith made sure she kept her distance on the couch from the fidgeting Xander, while Giles and Willow cast the eclipse spell over what looked like a chafing dish. They kept throwing stuff in, half of which could have been soup ingredients, and it just wasn't thrilling to watch. She was about to doze off. Just to keep conscious, she asked about the guy that was coming in. Xander didn't know him, and Naomi shrugged uncomfortably - she knew him, but didn't want to talk about it. "So he has some adamantium weapons or something?" Faith prodded, hoping to get her to talk.

Naomi shook her head, occasionally glancing towards Angel's office door nervously. Worried for Bob? Why? If the guy was any more indestructible, he'd be a rock demon's codpiece. "No, he's made of it. I mean, his skeleton is, it's laced with it."

"What? How'd that happened?"

"Some government agency did it to him, to … to make him a weapon, I guess. I'm not clear on the whole "why" of it. It might have been "because they could". He also has knives in his hands."

"Knives _in_ his hands?" Xander repeated, perking up a bit. He must have been bored too. "What the hell good are those? He must stab himself all the time."

"No. I mean, I don't know him well - not as well as I used to, apparently - but I've never seen him stab himself."

"He's a mutant?"

She nodded. "He has regenerative properties."

"Regenerative? How so?"

An uncomfortable shrug. She have a bad history with this guy? She seemed not to want to talk about him. "He heals fast, and from nearly any wound."

Xander scoffed, and sunk down deeper into the couch cushions. "Big deal. So do Slayers."

"Not necessarily," she replied icily, thinking of her own long coma.

There was a bright flash of light from under Angel's office door, and Naomi seemed to jolt. "Was that a good sign?" Xander wondered.

Faith listened hard for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't hear any screaming, so probably."

For some reason, Naomi didn't find that comforting.

Giles and Willow finished their little spell, and for some reason they both looked tired, although Giles more so than Willow. Maybe age was finally catching up to him. "Okay, in fifteen minutes, there should be an unexpected eclipse," Giles said, sitting on the edge of the desk. "It should last 'til nightfall, so we don't have to worry about time running out on us."

"Great. So what's this about some other vamps joining the party?" Faith wondered, as Bob had mentioned that to Angel as well.

Giles grimaced, and decided to play with his glasses for a bit. An obvious nervous habit. "If they can be found. But I'm rather hoping they can't be. Logan should be more than enough."

"One guy?" Xander complained. He really didn't like other men butting in, did he? He probably preferred to be the only guy amongst a large group of women - what man wouldn't, though? "One guy can't make much of a difference, rare metal or not."

Giles' soft blue eyes settled upon him, with such a firm, chastising look that he suddenly looked about twenty years younger. "Logan's not a normal man. That's what makes him so frightening."

Xander was probably going to make another smart ass comment, but there was a soft, odd noise out in the hall, and Faith leapt to her feet, ready to fight. "That's just Rags," Bren assured her.

Still, she remained standing and on alert as the office door opened, and a rather disheveled, crystal eyed Persaid demon came in, clad in a white "wife beater" tank top and faded jeans full of worn spots and holes, barefoot, his dirty blond hair wet and plastered to his scalp. "Ya coulda told me it was rainin' in Canada," he said to Bren, his Cockney accent so thick it was hard to understand him.

"Come on, I know it rains in California, and I aint' gonna mention London," a man scolded, following him in. "Don't be such a wuss, Rags." He too wore jeans with holes in them, but he wore them a lot better, maybe because his jeans weren't a size and a half too big for him. He also wore a worn brown leather jacket that looked like it had seen its share of road rash, and a pale olive t-shirt that was so tight you could tell he had a hard, chiseled chest that wouldn't have looked out of place on a marble statue in a museum somewhere. He was a fighter, you could see it in the way he carried himself, in the way that his body looked like it was made from stone, and the way he warily and instantly scanned a room when he stepped in it, sizing up and dismissing everyone as threats in the same millisecond glance. He had strange looking hair, and sideburns that would have been laughably out of date if they didn't look so wolfish and feral. His eyes seemed to skid away from Naomi, as if he didn't want to look at her, but then they seemed to stop and briefly scud back, something like bewilderment washing over his face. What? Faith would have looked, to see if Naomi was making a face at him or something, but she found herself unable to. Her eyes were riveted to him … because he was unbelievably fucking hot. Jesus Christ, what must that body look like naked? Goddamn. He had funny facial hair, she knew it, and she wanted to suggest he Google a razor and find out what it was, but … damn. If she'd seen him in a club, she'd be all over him like ugly on Berserker demon.

He must have known she was staring at him, because he looked at her once more, taking a quick glance of her entire body, but she didn't mind at all. Interest? Terrific. As long as he wasn't a tremendous asshole, maybe they could go get wasted after saving the world.

"Logan," Giles said, breaking the sudden, awkward silence. "This is Willow, that's Xander, and that's Faith. Everyone, this is Logan."

"Hi," Willow said in a bubbly manner, giving him a small wave. How did she remain cheerful? Prozac?

That made him give her a weird look. "Hi. Where's Angel?"

"He's -" Giles began, but stopped as his office door opened, and Angel himself saved him from further explanation. "Oh, hey Logan," Angel said casually, with none of Willow's enthusiasm, but with a certain familiarity.

Mordred followed him out, and Logan barely stifled a groan of disappointment. "You again. What the hell happened to you?"

Mordred gave him a sharp, sarcastic grin, which looked sinister with his new all black eyes. "I'm all charged up. Don't piss me off."

"Watch me shake," he sneered, and his eyes shifted to Bob as he came out.

"Good, the gang's all here. Maybe we can - "

But suddenly Logan was on him; he moved so fast it was nearly a joke. He had Bob by throat, and was shaking him like a rag doll. "Why do I smell her on you?" he shouted in his face, twisting suddenly and throwing Bob bodily at the door, which seemed to explode open and send him falling out into the corridor. Faith remembered tensing to move in as Angel grabbed Logan's arm, and then -

They were all talking in the office, Bob laying out the basic battle strategy while Logan stood in the near by corner, arms crossed over his chest, his shoulders hunched and his expression belligerent. Something had happened, hadn't it? She was sure it had … and yet, she couldn't remember.

Oh, whatever. It was a weird day anyways.

* * *

The rage was sudden, and probably caught Bob by surprise as much as it did him.

He thought he caught Bob's scent on Naomi, but couldn't quite believe it. Then when Bob came out, his scent was different … but still rife with her. He couldn't deny it now, could he? And suddenly he wanted to rip his fucking head off.

He lunged for him, grabbing him by the throat, and shouted, "Why do I smell her on you?" But he knew, didn't he? That's why he wanted to fucking kill him.

He tossed him through the door, and Angel grabbed him to stop him, but he yanked his arm away as Bob shouted, "Nobody hear this! Fucking Christ, Logan, what is your problem?"

"You know damn well what my problem is - you're fucking her, aren't you?" he snapped, stomping towards him.

Bob had been sitting on the floor, but stood up as he approached, and said, "Freeze."

Sadly, he did; he felt like he'd walked into amber and solidified. At least he wasn't alone - it seemed everyone else had frozen inside the room as well. "Let me go," he growled, barely able to talk.

"No. You're going to listen to me. I like her, she likes me, and you know I'd never hurt her, so what the hell's your problem?"

"You know what the hell my problem is. You know what she means to me."

"You love her so much you want her to be a nun? You won't even talk to her, Logan - you won't even tell her about your shared past. She wants to move on with her life. Why do you want to stop her when you won't even be honest with her?"

He glowered at him, wanting to rip his fucking guts out. He was right, of course, but that just made him more angry. "You know what happened."

"What, when she lost her memory? Yeah, I do - which is a bit more than she does. How fair is that?"

"How fair is it that everyone I love gets hurt 'cause of me?"

Bob shrugged with his hands. "It's not fair at all. But how can you make this all about you? Yes, you think you're doing what's "best" for her - but did you ever ask her? Don't you think she should have a say?"

He glared at him, because it was all he could do. It was then he really saw what was happening in Bob's eyes; a deep blackness seemed to swell and ebb, the blue shrinking or expanding accordingly. It was eerie and a bit unsettling, and Logan wondered if it had anything to do with his new, slightly bitter scent. "I thought we were friends."

"We are. But Naomi's a friend too, and I'm not gonna shun her because you feel guilty. This really isn't the best time to get into it, 'cause I'm so full of magic that I can barely contain it. Now either you get yer ass back in that room and save it for later, or I'll make you do it. We don't have time for a pointless pissing contest."

"You're a prick."

"Yeah, well, tell me something I don't know. Now make your choice."

That was a joke, wasn't it? There was no choice at all, and he knew it. "This isn't over," he promised,

Bob nodded wearily. "I know. It never is."

Bob released him, and he briefly thought about rushing him, but he wouldn't be fast enough. Besides, was he really pissed off to him due to Naomi? Or was it just the final straw that sent him over the edge? Was everything just so fucked up he didn't know what to do anymore?

He returned to the office and let himself sulk in a corner as Bob put everything back to the way it was before his little "display", rearranging everyone's memories like he was shifting deck chairs. He wondered if he should just ask Bob to burn out those parts of his mind that had memories he no longer wished to have.

Maybe once he got to kick something's ass, he'd be okay. Then he could crawl back to his deep, dark hole in the British Columbia woods, and no one would have to bother him again.

15

The Dr. Ronald Fisher Show was a syndicated talk show capitalizing on the now fading wave of self-help "tough talkers", people who specialized in telling people things they should know, but for some reason didn't. It was all the more funnier because most of these people called themselves "Doctors" for reasons completely unconnected to their "common sense therapist" auras - Fisher, for example, managed to get his degrees in business administration.

Filmed on the Paradigm Studios lot in three day chunks - two shows per day - it was just squeaking by on the skin of its teeth. Audience members were often culled from studio tour groups to fill up the empty seats, and syndicators were dropping the show to the point where its survival was hanging on a razor's edge. Fisher had hurriedly locked himself into a book deal, so at least he could have some income once the show dropped out. He also had an endorsement deal lined up with manufacturers of a new diet supplement.

They had just started filming the second show of the day, which was all about rebellious teenagers and the parents who couldn't stand them. Currently on stage was a sobbing mother with her delinquent son, who had apparently burned down their trailer, and seemed to be soaking up all the audience's boos and groans like it was better than applause.

The first hint of a problem showed up in the control room. The panel went nuts, the readouts flickering and the cameras showing nothing but static as the studio lights faded but didn't quite die. They all came up again, the readouts returning to normal, as the floor director called "Cut" and tried to find out what had just happened.

The murmuring of the crowd - already grousing about what they largely assumed to be yet another blackout - covered up any noises from backstage as the stranger appeared, striding out on stage like he owned the place. His oily black coat flapped about him like wings, with long oil black hair framing a face that was instantly forgettable, save for his eyes, which glowed an unreal, vibrant blue, like alien suns. "People of the United States," he proclaimed, in a voice that sounded like a rock being scraped along a cemetery gate. "God is back. And boy, am I fucking pissed at you."

Everything burned. There was no transition, no movement on his part save for a dismissive wave of his hand, and suddenly everyone - from the producer in the booth to the entire audience and floor managers - suddenly dissolved into piles of charred ash, their burnt remains swirling in Brownian motions around the now empty studio. He leered at the cameras, enjoying the display of his powers, but it faltered, his razorblade smile twisting and fading as he looked up towards the studio roof. "Dad, is that you? I was wondering when your cowardly ass was going to show up."

He thrust up his arms, and the ceiling burned away, along with the walls, the sudden burst of power making the plastic chairs tumble across the ground like dead leaves. The metal legs scraped across the asphalt lot of Paradigm, casting sparks, which was good, as it was suddenly pitch black. He looked up curiously, and the sun appeared to have been swallowed by a large black orb.

"What is this?" he asked. The remaining studios, roughly the size and shape of airplane hangars, cast long, deep shadows across the lot. He didn't need to see him to know he was here, though; he could taste his blood on the wind, somehow corrupt and befouled. "Do you think you can kill me again, you deluded has been?"

A shadow moved, transformed into a man he had never seen before. He looked almost Human, but stank of something else, mixed in with clove cigarettes. His eyes were black, the deep black of primal magic, and his hand was alive with living sparks, glints of hard silver that tasted like blood. "I've never killed you before," he said, his voice betraying a French accent. "But there's a first time for everything, non?"

A bolt of pure magic shot from his hand and Ananga was shocked he could actually feel it, a hot knife blade through his essential form as he was propelled back and hit an aluminum wall with enough force to leave a dent. It was then he saw them all, figures swarming in, stinking of his father's blood and essential magicks, and he couldn't help but smile.

Oh good, he brought friends. Now which one's death would hurt dear old dad the most?


	11. Chapter 11

Ananga threw out his hand, sending a wave of heat and force straight for the Frenchman, but he dissolved before it, fading to black shadow before it hit him. Before he could move, he felt something stab through him, an unfamiliar sharpness that ached dully, and he looked down to see the tips of three metal blades sticking out of his chest. Someone had stabbed him through the wall of the set. Although he did wonder how they could actually stab him and make him hurt, he slammed his arm back and made the set collapse and burn. "This won't help you, father!" he shouted, searching for him among the gathering shadows. His chest continued to ache, and it irritated him no end. He should not hurt; gods didn't hurt.

He sent a shock of bright light up into the sky, trying to illuminate the scene, but it seemed to be instantly swallowed by darkness. The darkness was working with them - it was a spell. But no spell could trump his power … unless … "What have you done?"

Suddenly he was hit from behind by a piece of flaming debris.

It didn't hurt, it was just more of a surprise than anything else. The magic wasn't going to protect them forever; they would die, it would just be more difficult than it should be. The darkness swarmed once again, and suddenly he heard behind him, "We done gone and got us some adamantium knives."

A woman's voice, punctuated by a slash across his back that burned like fire. Before he could do anything, he caught a kick in the face that didn't hurt, just shoved him around. Where he came face to face with a vampire, the stink of magic and his father's corrupted blood coming from a mark on his misshapen forehead, and he stabbed him in the stomach before giving him an uppercut punch that sent his head snapping back. It burned, the metal in his stomach hurt, and it shouldn't have. What sorcery was this? Mother made sure the metal that hurt was gone!

He stumbled back, and the woman from before, some dark haired harlot, rammed her knife straight through his back. It too sizzled like fire. He screamed in frustration and sent a shockwave throughout the lot, knocking down the remaining studios like dominos, sending the woman and the vampire flying away from him. They should have been vaporized, they should have at least screamed, but neither happened. The darkness seemed to swallow them, and he was suddenly aware of another woman out of the corner of his eye, a coalescing shadow, and she said something in Latin, shocking him with a burst of magic that seemed to sting his skin like a thousand wasps. He saw an old man come in, saying something in Arabic and lobbing what looked like a glowing object at him. He put up a force field, but the thing broke on impact with it, and - it _burned_! He could feel it eating away his force field like it was stripping the flesh off his bones, and he reeled away, not sure how this could be happening. He was promised clear access; he was promised revenge. His father was vulnerable, he was in no position to stop him - so what the hell was this?

He heard faintly, from everywhere and nowhere, a man singing. "So I see that you're leaving me, and taking up with the enemy -"

Was that him? He looked around, but all the dark moved. It was amorphous, moving in and out like it was an animal, like it was breathing. The people had disappeared inside it somehow, and he couldn't see them - he couldn't sense them, which was somehow worse.

The singing continued, somehow taunting. " - the cold comfort of the in-between - "

He let out a scream of frustration and stomped the ground, causing a sudden, sharp earthquake that cracked the asphalt into a fine spider web of cracks. Some of the asphalt broke into jagged chunks, and he hoped that that would catch them short, but if it did, he didn't see it or hear it. "Face me, you cowards!" he roared, letting the fire come into his hands.

The first one he saw was dead, whether his father cared for them or not.

* * *

His impulse was just to run in there and start pounding on him, but that wasn't the plan.

Logan hated the plan, at least where it applied to him. He didn't like hiding, but they were using something called a "veiling spell" to hide behind and remain out of his view, except for when they stepped around it. Bob wanted him to especially hide, as he was the "secret weapon", and wasn't to reveal that he was the guy with the troublesome claws until it was completely unavoidable. These sneak attacks were awful, especially after the fucker tried to vaporize him.

Not that he was bothered, it was just startling to have the building come down on his head, already slagged wreckage. He barely felt it, though; the wards or the spells or all of them combined to make them a barely noticeable irritation. Once he climbed out, he found a nice sized piece and threw it as hard as he could, nailing the sucker in the back of his head. No, it wasn't the plan, and it wouldn't hurt him, but he had to do something to him for that.

What was it going to take for this guy to bilocate? He figured Faith and Angel's dual attack would be enough, but he just seemed to be getting pissy. Willow and Giles combined attack really pissed him off, and the subsequent earthquake made Logan stumble and almost lose his balance. Someone grabbed on to him to maintain their own balance, and he saw it was that girl, Faith.

"Sorry," she said quietly, letting go of his arm once the tremors had subsided. Had she felt up his muscle? He was sure she had.

"It's okay," he said, giving her a brief glance. So, she had "Psycho" on her shirt - was that a warning? She seemed awful strong, but according to Angel, all "Slayers" were. And this wasn't the Slayer that Angel had a big mad on for, but why not? She was a looker, and her tight t-shirt and jeans showed off a really sleek, tight body ...

Okay, mind in the game! Shit, he was going to need ADD medication if he couldn't keep a single focus.

" - a little less than a Human being - " Bob sang, clearly annoying Ananga. The only family resemblance was those glowing blue eyes.

Mordred came in again, hitting him with a bright burst of magic that seemed to cut through him like a lightning bolt, but even as Ananga reeled from the hit, it all went to hell really, really fast.

He bilocated, but there was no warning at all. There was just one of him, stumbling, but suddenly there was another right behind Mordred, who grabbed the annoying English/Frenchman by the throat, but from the back so he was more or less helpless. From the rather startled look on Mordred's face, from the way his eyes bugged out, Ananga must have been squeezing very hard. "Pest, don't you know I'm a god? You can't do this to me!"

"We can do anything we want," Angel snarled. "Haven't you heard? God is dead." He then stabbed the second Ananga straight through the back of his neck.

He roared, a sound with a physical force, and tossed Mordred aside as he turned to go after Angel, who'd already been thrown back. He took a step into the darkness and then started to cough like a six pack a day smoker, doubling over in pain.

Bob said Degei might help them out. Degei was the only god Bob could really talk to in his current "mortal" state, because he said all you had to do to get Degei's attention was talk to a snake. He said he made contact with him by talking to a milk snake in a pet store. It could have been more of Bob's bullshit, but it was just weird enough to quite possibly be true.

Ananga two was vomiting up tiny slender snakes. He had no idea what kind they were, other than perhaps babies, but it was deeply disgusting.

"What the hell..?" Faith gasped.

"I don't get it either," Logan admitted. "But Degei's a god. His snakes can show up wherever he wants them."

"I don't think I'm having spaghetti for a while."

That was almost funny.

The first Ananga was right there in front of them, his back to them as he looked at his twin in equal shock. Although he hated attacking anyone from behind like a coward, there was no opportunity better than this.

He knew from stabbing him earlier that something about Ananga's hide made him hard to stab. It was like trying to punch through a wall plated with just enough adamantium to make things difficult. Maybe a little added force was needed.

"Can you take him down, but stay low?" He asked Faith. "I wanna end this."

"Yeah, no problem," she said, and didn't even wait for him to elaborate. She ran out of the veil and slid on the ground, like she was sliding for home in a baseball game. Logan had to move fast as she slammed into the first Ananga's legs, sliding right past him as she sent him flying backwards.

There was no finesse, but really none was needed. As Ananga fell back towards him, he simply threw a punch aimed at his head, and popped his claws. They punched through his rock hard skull with a bit more ease - the implacable force of gravity was a big help - and ripped up as the rest of Ananga fell towards the ground.

He'd torn off the top of his skull in one whole piece, exposing a very Human looking brain, and as Ananga hit the ground he looked goggle eyed up at his hair and the roof of his skull caught in Logan's claws.

"Holy shit!" Willow exclaimed, and it sounded funny coming from her. Maybe it was because she had such a soprano, little girl voice.

Ananga the first was still conscious, though, and glaring up at him with a hate that was incandescent. He opened his mouth, and roared.

It was not a scream; it was a genuine roar, one with its own physicality - it hit him like a blow from a wrecking ball. It didn't so much throw him as launch him at a great velocity across the lot. The veil - such as it was - was cushioning, and drew him in, so it was kind of like hitting a pillow, but he still felt winded, and his chest ached and his head seemed to spin, following the motion of the Earth. He dropped down to the ground on his hands and knees, and tried to catch his breath and get a grip. He looked up, to see if Faith was doing better.

Actually, things had gotten worse. The force of his angry roar also had heat behind it, and all the debris was on fire, while some of it flickered up from the new fissures in the asphalt. His first self had climbed unsteadily to his feet, brain still exposed, orangish blood now streaming down his face from where it slopped over the top. He should have been dead, but gods just didn't go down that easily. Still, his eyes were glazed, and had the special madness of a rabies victim. "Filth," he spat, his voice gravelly and hard to listen to. It was like iron fingernails down a blackboard. "Filthy Human refuse. The magic can't protect you forever. I can kill you a thousand different ways, and never quite let you die."

Logan just shrugged. "Sounds like my life."

He shouldn't have said anything, as that allowed Ananga to focus on him, figure out where he was, and he started towards him, energy starting to boil beneath the thin veneer of his skin. "You're d -"

Faith came out of nowhere behind him, and stabbed him in the brain , driving her adamantium knife down into the exposed tissue. "Die already, you fucking bastard," she snapped.

Eyes so large they seemed to be bugging out of his head, he shot out his arm and Faith went flying, colliding with Angel, who had come out to join her (or possibly stop her - impossible to say), and the adamantium knife remained sticking out of his cranium. The second Ananga let out a strangle noise of choking rage, but before he could make a defensive move, Giles and Willow double teamed him with bright bursts of energy that made him stagger.

Mordred coalesced from the shadows, behind the first Ananga, who was staring blindly and making vague hand gestures, like he was trying to reach up and grab the knife, but couldn't quite make it. It was pathetic, and he figured it was time to put the thing out of its misery. He darted out of the shadows, and sliced his claws through his neck, sending his head flying. And Mordred said something in what sounded like Greek and grabbed Ananga's body, which burst into white fire, like phosphorous.

Ananga number two screamed, sending out a wave of force that toppled them like toy soldiers and seemed to press down on them like the weight of the world. The air was wet cement, trying to suffocate them and press the air out of their lungs, and the darkness seemed to breaking up beneath the strain. But Ananga's headless corpse finally burned out like a candle, disappearing in a puff of white smoke that tasted like burnt blood.

He bilocated again, and tried to sandwich them all in between the crushing embrace of his power - the asphalt continued to crumble, continued to melt into molten goop beneath the flames - but Angel threw his adamantium knife, nailing one straight in the eye, and his power stream briefly faltered. Willow took advantage of that, hitting him with a burst of power that seemed to surround him like an opalescent bubble. Logan could still hear Bob faintly singing, " - a little less than a happy high - "

Where the hell was he? The bastard was milking this for all it was worth. Logan got up and lunged for the closest Ananga, bursting the bubble of magic and driving his claws into his body, punching his claws into him again and again, making him bleed out like a leaky dam. He threw him again, hitting him with a force like a Mack truck, and he could taste blood in his mouth, feel it crawling down his throat as his nose shattered and he hit the burning asphalt hard enough to feel it tear into his back. "Come on, Bob," he muttered, as Willow, Giles, and Mordred struggled to repel the Anangas and keep them from doing more harm, as Faith and Angel briefly launched physical attacks on them that were futile and quickly stopped with a wave of his hand. They both hit the ground quite close to him.

Bob's voice, neither here nor there. " - a little less than a suicide - "

Logan rolled up to his knees, and prepared to stand, as Angel and Faith both sat up, him bleeding from a split lip, her bleeding more extravagantly from a large gash on her forehead. Angel wiped the blood off his lip with the back of his hand, and gave him a knowing look. "How you doing?"

"Hangin' in there," he said, feeling the warm and extraordinarily uncomfortable feeling of the shattered cartilage in his nose starting to knit itself back together again. "You?"

Angel shrugged. "Not dust yet."

"Where is that Aussie asshole?" Faith snapped, looking around.

Apparently all you had to do was speak of the devil. Because Bob coalesced out of the shadows, behind one of the Anangas, and punched his fist straight through his chest. It went all the way through, blood and broken bone splashing into the fire and making it sizzle, and the other Ananga launched himself at Bob with an angry roar.

They collided as a wave of force seemed to roll off of them and send them all flying backward, the ground rippling like a pond on impact. They rolled along the flaming street, Ananga finally getting the advantage of Bob, straddling him and punching a hole straight through his chest. "How do you like it, dad?" he growled, the blue glow in his eyes growing brighter than the flames.

"Not as much as I like this," Bob grated through gritted teeth, grabbing Ananga by the throat and sinking his fingers into and through his neck. Orange blood spurted out, and Logan caught a glimmer of something in Bob's fingers, something he was slipping under Ananga's skin.

It looked familiar, but he couldn't place it. It was Angel who recognized it. "Is that the amulet of Taliesin?"

It was, and now it was in Ananga, whose eyes widened horror, and he scrambled back, off his father, digging at his own throat with his hands. He ripped out chunks of his own skin, making blood spew out of him with arterial force, but his skin was already starting to deteriorate, slough off him in thick pieces. Bob sat up, hand over the hole in his chest, and said to him, "I'm sorry, son. But you never belonged here, in this world or the next."

Anaga simply dissolved into a bright orange chunk of … well, who the hell knew? But he died screaming, half in rage and half in pain, and the dead body of the other Ananga simply disappeared, along with the flames, which died as suddenly as if bathed in water.

The resulting silence was strange, as eerie as sudden deafness, but finally it was broken by Mordred. "It's over?"

Angel looked around, and got slowly to his feet. "I think so."

"Good," he sighed, and promptly passed out, crumpling to the ground in a heap.

Giles dropped to his knees, dripping with sweat and clearly exhausted, but at least he didn't pass out, which was a credit to him. Angel helped Faith up, and she briefly stumbled, but remained standing. The sudden lack of magic - a sense of armor he hadn't realized he was wearing - was a bit disorienting, but he got up and managed to get one foot in front of the other. His healing factor was kicking into overdrive now, his skin flushing like he was gripped by a sudden fever. "Are we all okay?" he wondered.

"Yeah, just … yeah," Willow said, running a hand through her sweaty hair, hovering over Giles like a nervous mother.

Logan nudged Mordred with his foot, and he groaned slightly. He was fine; if you could make a noise, you weren't dead. But Bob hadn't said anything, he was just sitting on the pavement, arms wrapped around his midsection, seemingly staring at the gleaming gem that made up the amulet of Taliesin, which had dropped naked to the pavement after Ananga had disappeared. And the closer he got to him, the more he could smell blood - Bob's blood, tinged with the strange, unearthly smell of magic.

And he knew why Mordred had collapsed - the magic had been pulled out of him. And there was only one place where it could go.

"Bob? Bob, what the hell have you done?" He was almost within arm's reach of him when Bob turned his head to look at him, and his eyes were a pure, lustrous black that still seemed to glow. It was a dark fire, one that was invading the veins of his face, gorging itself beneath his skin.

"Putting an end to this," he said, and his voice had changed slightly. It was part Aussie larrikin, and part god, an ethereal, otherworldly voice that made something in your mind cringe. "You can't channel primal magic, not even share it, without a sacrifice. It's just the way it's done. Coin of the realm."

"What?" Faith sounded shocked, and probably spoke for all of them.

But Logan got it. He felt his stomach turn hard and cold, set like ice, and he didn't know whether to be angry or sad. "You son of a bitch. You knew -"

"I'll be back," he interrupted, with a sickly smile. Black lines were branching out all over his face, spreading down his neck, looking like needle thin snakes had invaded his bloodstream. "I'm a Power, and they own me. I'll be back in a couple of weeks. This isn't the first time I died, you know. I'm karma in action. They keep putting me back here, again and again and again, because Powers don't kill other Powers, and because they want me to learn … something. I guess once I figure out what, they'll let me be a full blown Power again. But I don't want to be one of 'em, so I guess I'm stuck on this merry-go-round."

Logan knelt beside him, still not sure what he should do. He felt like punching him. "It was for you, wasn't it?" He meant the song; the song that Bob was singing was for himself, not Ananga. A musical explanation; a type of eulogy in advance.

"Hey, I like to sing."

"You can't -" Angel interrupted, and turned to Giles and Willow. "We can stop this, right? There's a way around this, there has to be."

But Willow looked at him sadly, shaking her head, and Giles didn't even bother to look up, he simply put a hand to his face, seemingly wiping the sweat from his face, hiding his grimace. They didn't know how to stop it; they didn't even know how to start.

Logan leaned in, grabbing Bob's arm. His skin felt impossibly hot, and he had no idea if he could see him, even though he was technically looking right at him. "I'm your avatar. What's going to happen to me?" It seemed like a selfish thing to ask, but it also seemed like something important.

Bob put a hand on his shoulder, and it was a strangely comforting gesture, even though it felt like his heat was actually burning his skin beneath his shirt. "It won't last long. Take care of them. Remind Hel to keep the fridge stocked. I promised her I'd cook her dinner on her birthday, and I'll be back to do just that."

"No, you can't leave me on the hook like that. Bob, you're a god, you can fi -"

But Bob shoved him away, and just in time, as Bob was suddenly consumed by what looked like darkness itself, a void bursting through his skin and swallowing him whole. Logan thought he felt … something, a wave of that heat wash over him as Bob disappeared, but it was not scalding. No, it was strangely calming, almost soothing in a way he couldn't explain, and twice as empowering.

Someone, Willow perhaps, stifled a sob, as they all found themselves alone in the ruins of the Paradigm Studios back lot, stars glimmering through the premature darkness. As Logan climbed to his feet, Angel reached down to help him up, but he didn't need it. He felt just fine; he felt better than fine.

"That's it?" Faith asked. "I thought he was a god; I thought he found a way around the whole primal magic thing."

"It was a lie," he told her. "He's in a Belial demon shell, remember? They're the best liars on the planet."

Angel gave him the strangest look, like he wasn't sure he knew who he was looking at, and his nostrils flared briefly, like he'd picked up a change in his scent. Had he? Perhaps, but a very minor one. "Was he lying about coming back?"

He shook his head confidently. "No, he's coming back. But I think, until he does, we should keep this between us. Because if his enemies think he's gone … well, you saw what happened. For the sake of this dimension, we let as few people know as possible."

Angel continued to stare at him, morphing out of vampire face and into his normal Human visage. The look in his eyes never changed, even as they went from yellow to brown. "How much of his power do you have now?"

He didn't even know how to answer that question, but when he closed his eyes, he could see the faintest glimmer of blue . "Enough."

And he sincerely hoped it was.


	12. Chapter 12

16

He wasn't looking forward to returning to the office, but on the other hand, it didn't really bother him. After all, he had a part of Bob in him, and Bob just didn't see it as a major problem. After all, he had died before, and he didn't see his own death as a big deal.

Logan wondered how much Bob power he actually had. He knew he didn't have it all - he remembered what that was like; like having a couple of suns living inside him - but he had a bit, and he had a feeling he knew things he shouldn't know. (Like Jean wasn't actually dead - well, perhaps now she was, but she didn't die at Alkali Lake - and the Powers had altered all their memories so they wouldn't remember all the things she had done since then, or their meetings with her. He really didn't know how to feel about any of that.) Maybe he only had a bit of his power because he himself wasn't at full power when he died. He just didn't know.

But he knew he'd have to tell the others, and that he wasn't looking forward to. Xander wouldn't really give a shit; Bren would be crushed; Naomi could well be devastated, and that was certainly what she needed. (Bob could be such a bastard sometimes.) Xander got left behind for the obvious reason - Human - while Naomi was left behind, much to her disapproval, because electricity just wasn't much of a threat to a being that was made out of energy. It wasn't even a type of energy she could manipulate. And Bren was just a kid, and Bob didn't want him in the god fight, so he wasn't.

The trip back was relatively quiet, save for Willow's small sobs, which he didn't understand since she didn't know Bob, but she said it was sad when anybody died, even if they weren't permanently dead, and he supposed she had a point. But right now, he just felt numb. He had a feeling everyone else did as well.

Logan led the way into the office, where Bren and Naomi jumped to their feet almost instantly, looking startled and concerned. Xander was simply asleep on the couch. "What happened?" Naomi asked, clearly searching for Bob behind him.

"We heard there was an earthquake, and we wondered if it was connected to what was going on," Bren added, then continued, "Boy, you guys look like shit. But he's dead?"

Logan nodded. "He's dead."

They had all filed in by now, and Mordred, the last of their line, closed the door. Both Naomi and Bren looked confused, but she asked first, "Where's Bob?"

He had no choice - he told her. He told them both. Their expressions fell, and although Naomi teared up, it was actually Bren who started crying first. "Shit!" he yelled, kicking the wastepaper basket across the room. Xander woke up with a jolt, briefly disoriented, but he got filled in soon enough. He emphasized he was coming back, that Powers just basically got recycled, but he had no idea if anyone believed him.

Finally, Naomi went into the back, and he followed her, hoping to talk to her alone. He stopped her in the narrow hallway. "Naomi, I just -"

"That selfish fuck!" she snapped, turning to face him. Some tears had streaked from her eyes, but she wasn't exactly crying. "He knew it, didn't he? He knew he was going to die when he headed out."

He had no reason to protect him. "Yeah, he must have."

She scowled violently, and hit the wall with her fist, making sparks shoot from her fingers. "Bastard. That bastard. Is he really coming back, or is that feel good bullshit?"

"It's real."

"Good - because when he comes back, I'm going to kill him."

She turned away, lips twisting as she tried to keep from crying. He reached out to her and pulled her into his arms, holding her and enjoying her smell one more time. God, he missed her. But Bob had been right about one thing - he hadn't treated her fairly, because he was a dipshit and a coward. She seemed reluctant at first, but then sagged against him, burying her face in his shoulder, struggling to hold back the tears. "I'm so sorry," he told her, stroking her hair. He felt the sharp sting of sparks, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

"About what?" she sniffed.

"Everything. I fucked everything up, way before Bob fucked everything up."

She was quiet for a moment, and he could feel her tears soaking into his shirt. "I was never mad at you, Logan. Irritated, but not mad. But Bob? When he gets back, I'm going to roast him like a chicken. Bastard."

And she could do it too. So maybe Bob might want to rethink his resurrection plans until she cooled down.

Oh hell, what was he thinking? He probably was, the weasel.

* * *

He was hoping he could at least finish packing before Chiquita showed up, but he had no such luck. He'd turned to his closet to grab his reserve leather jacket, and suddenly there she was, standing in the doorway in a dress as bright green as a traffic light. "And where do you think you're going?" she asked archly, hand on her hip.

Spike snorted and shook his head. "I dunno. Away from here. I'm thinkin' South America. Brazil's nice this time of year."

"You're not going anywhere. I thought we'd already discussed this."

He turned away from her, throwing his jacket on the bed, and walked over to his bedroom window, looking out over a good slice of the neon Los Angeles night. It should have made him feel like the watcher, but more often than not, he felt watched, and he knew why. "You work for a bunch of bloody evil lawyers, right? I didn't sign anything, did I? When I put on that fucking necklace thing, I never signed a contract with you people, did I? So I'm a free agent." Supposedly, if you believed them - and why would you want to? - it all started back then. The moment he put on that sodding necklace, they "owned" him, and whether he continued to exist or not was at their whim. It was a clause he hadn't realized he was living under - no one had, apparently. So it was never like he had any choice in this matter, and he hated it. One of the good things about being a vampire was you were never supposed to feel powerless, and yet, here he was, trapped in the contract from hell - or wherever it was the Senior Partners were from. They wouldn't even let him die until they were ready for it.

She shook her head, and he didn't realize until that moment that the gesture could be smug. "Ignorance of the law is no excuse."

"It's not law, it's a rule those fuckers made up because they were bored. Your god boy is dead, and somehow I'm guessin' Angel isn't. Maybe you need to get yourself a better soldier." He found a cigarette, lit it, and all the while surreptitiously watched her reflection in the window. She crossed her arms over her breasts, and cocked her head to the side, as if he'd suddenly started speaking Chinese.

"You think we don't know your heart's not really in it? Well, whatever passes for your heart. Which is funny, considering how much Angel has betrayed you."

He grunted humorously, still looking at her via reflection. He had a feeling if he turned to look at her, he'd try and rip her pretty little head off. "Everybody's betrayed me. I think it's a sport."

"Don't even think about betraying us, Spike," she said, in a low voice he supposed was meant to be intimidating, but he actually found it difficult not to laugh. She was about as intimidating as a four legged ant. "You don't even want to know what will happen to you then."

"Oh really? Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Just try it," she replied coldly, and left. He waited to hear the front door close, but didn't catch it. Then again, had he caught it when it opened? She smelled mostly Human, but he was beginning to suspect there was more going on here than he realized. But wasn't there usually?

Honestly, he was just glad any god was dead, he didn't care if it was the one on their side or not. The only good god was a dead one, right? So what if the Partners thought that was tantamount to betrayal? He didn't like being pushed around, and he didn't take orders well. He thought they should know that if they were all omniscient.

What were his options? Stay here and being their good little doggy, or try and get the fuck out of dodge, and risk the wrath of the big bad lawyer gods?

There was hardly any choice. He hadn't been back to Rio in a long time, and there was no better time than the present.

17

As soon as he could get away, he did, as he had to tell a very important person about Bob's "demise". He wasn't looking forward to it, but it had to be done.

He walked into the Way Station to find it about half full, reeking of something that smelled like wet moss and road kill, with Sage Francis blasting from the jukebox. As soon as he came in, Helga looked at him expectantly, and said, "It's about goddamn time! I heard there was a godfight goin' on. Who is it, and do I need to bring the flamethrower?"

He knew why Bob hadn't asked her in this fight: she'd have beat the shit out of him whilst he was dying. Helga didn't have much in the way of sentiment, which was one of her most endearing qualities. "The fight's over, Hel. We need to talk."

She just stared at him for the longest moment, as he took a seat on a vacant barstool, and finally she said, "Did you know your eyes are funny color? They're kind of bluish green."

He hadn't realized. But now he knew that that was all the hint she needed. "Okay, everybody out, the bar's closed!" she shouted over the music.

There was a collective groan from the patrons, and no one seemed to be in any hurry to comply. So she reached under the bar and pulled out a double barreled pump action shotgun, which had been sawed off to a very lethal length. "At the count of five, I open fire!"

They cleared out so fast they knocked over chairs and tipped over beer cans, made the tables scrape across the floor in their haste to flee. He smirked, and admitted, "No one can clear a bar like you."

"The key is they have to know you're absolutely serious." She put the shotgun back under the bar, and retrieved a big ass can of Castlemaine XXX, which she placed in front of him. She got herself a bottle of raspberry flavored vodka and took a swig from it as she sat on the stool behind the bar, facing him. After a moment, she said almost conversationally, "So he's dead?"

He nodded, opening his can of beer, and told her the whole story. She just nodded, tears sometimes glittering in her eyes, but they were quickly blinked away. She'd already cried over him; she wasn't doing it again, at least not in front of anyone.

As he ended the story, she sighed impatiently. "Death by primal magic? What kind of stupid death is that? He could have at least died by explosive decompression or something; he would have liked that."

"He's died before?"

She shrugged. "Well, supposedly. But it's Bob, you know - for all I know, he was full of shit. As he likes to say, bullshit's his middle name."

"He said he'd back before your birthday."

"He better goddamn well be! I have no idea what to do with a jar of capers, other than throw them at Thrak on karaoke night."

They sat in silence for a while, having their drinks, as soft music played on the jukebox, a melancholy Elliot Smith song. It was only near the end of the song that he realized that this was the very song that Bob had been singing tonight. He looked back at the jukebox, wondering what the deal was with that thing. Only Bob would have a magic jukebox. "What?" she wondered.

"I think Bob's makin' it known he's still here."

She grunted in understanding, and shrugged a single shoulder. "Wouldn't surprise me. He has to overstay his welcome. It's a thing with him."

He could understand. He had a tendency to hang around long after the party was over as well.

As soon as they both finished their drinks, he made to go, as Hel seemed to want to be alone. Still, she gave him a powerful, almost crushing hug that seemed to go on longer than normal. He stroked her back, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and told her, "Call me whenever you need me. I might just hang around for a while."

She brushed her lips against his, and whispered, "Well, you know where the spare key is if you need a place to crash."

He did, and he might have to take her up on it, as he had no idea where he was going to spend the night. But he decided to worry about it later - at least L.A. had lots of plentiful cheap shit motels.

He left the bar, feeling better than he thought he would. It had been a weird night, but he had an almost ominous feeling that the weirdness hadn't really begun. He'd had some of Bob's power before sure, but never without him around to tell him what to do with it. At least he didn't have it all; he had no idea how he would have handled that.

He'd just started down the street when he noticed a woman sitting on the hood of an old cherry red Mustang parked across the way. She hopped off the car as she saw him. "Hey - did you make all those demons run out of the bar?" It was Faith, her eyes bright with curiosity and what could very well have been admiration.

"No, that was the work of Helga, the world's toughest bartender. Don't ever piss her off, unless you enjoy stuffing your intestines back in. Are you following me?"

She shook her head, then grimaced and held her hands wide. "Well, not exactly. I just wanted to see if you might be interested in gettin' a drink with me. I have a tendency to get kinda charged up after a fight, and you looked like you might be the same way. I know this bar where the 'tender has a crush on me, and lets me run a huge tab. He doesn't have a shot in hell, but he's a dreamer."

He raised an eyebrow at her, and couldn't help but smile. She met his gaze fearlessly, one corner of her mouth quirked up in a half smile. "What?"

"You're trouble, aren't you?" Since he was, he felt he could tell. It was like gaydar, only … not.

Her dark eyes glittered, and her smile broadened, becoming almost predatory. "Sure am. I'm bettin' you are too."

"Guilty as charged."

She gestured down the street, looking frighteningly young and alive. "Wanna go look for some more?"

He snickered, finding her instantly, enormously appealing, more so than before. She was definitely a firecracker, and he knew she could probably get him in a world of trouble faster than he could on his own. "Yeah, why not?"

How could he resist an invitation like that?

* * *

The End (For Now) 


End file.
